


Methods of Distraction

by BibliophileLove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BibliophileLove/pseuds/BibliophileLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after John and Sherlock move in together, there is a break in cases and without the work to keep him busy, Sherlock begins to pay more attention to his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was browsing fanfiction.net for Johnlock fics and ran across one that was rather good, but halfway through there a was a link to the more explicit version on this site. So I took a look and figured I would give it a try and make my own account. This is my first Johnlock fic, I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think!

Chapter One

The sound of his fingers, tired and unusually uncoordinated, filled the silence as they clinked small pieces of china together. He performed this small ritual many times a day, always _clinking_ the cups together as he moved them around the counter, _clinking_ as though he was unaware of the agitation the minute sound caused his roommate. But then again, with his inferior, dull mind, he probably was.

Sherlock closed his eyes, laying back against the couch with his head on the cushion and his feet propped up on the opposite arm. His long frame stretched, his fingers thrummed impatiently on his abdomen, his right foot twitched as it rested on top of the other. It was quiet, too quiet. Minus, of course, the horrid sound of small china cups crashing together with a force that must have been intended to cause him intense vexation.

Unable to stop himself, he watched out the corner of his eye as John completed his task, carrying the two cups on their saucers into the sitting room, placing one of them on the table just next to Sherlock’s lax left arm. Before he turned, he stood up straight and turned sharply on his heels, an ingrained action left over from his military days.

Sherlock ignored the cup, focusing instead on the ceiling as John sat in the armchair only a few feet away.  
“Had a bad night, have you?” Sherlock drawled, his tone suggesting that he was completely uninterested in his question being answered, when in fact the truth couldn’t be further. He was very much interested, which was not unusual when it came to the habits of his flatmate. There was always something about John’s too easily read expressions, his stuttering indignation, his unconscious and unwavering loyalty, that simply fascinated him, though he would never utter it aloud.

“Well, yes, actually. How did you-” Sherlock could just hear his confusion, even his secret interest.  
“You neglected to go through your usual routine of washing and brushing your teeth, instead you skipped straight to the coffee. In fact, you didn’t even look in the mirror after you relieved yourself. Your hair is sticking up magnificently, because you’ve run your fingers through it repeatedly. You were obviously up most of the night, if the state of our living space is to be counted as evidence. I am quite certain that I left an empty plate on this table, and my coat was draped over the desk on top of your computer. I have observed over the last few months that you have a habit of straightening up when you’re stressed, and I can always tell your state of mind by how tidy the apartment is. It happens to be very tidy this morning. That along with the lack of the usual toothpaste residue on your lips and your incredibly unruly hair, I assume that you’ve had some trouble sleeping.” Sherlock finished, not bothering to turn to his flatmate to witness his reaction. He could already see the frown on his face.

“You haven’t even looked at me yet, how did you know about my hair? And what do you mean usual toothpaste residue? There is never any toothpaste residue on my-”  
“Hand me my case, would you?” Sherlock interrupted smoothly. Not that he didn’t enjoy listening to John’s amazed frustration, but he had other matters to think of.

He listened, unsmiling as John paused, opened his mouth as if to speak again, then thought better of it and closed it again, shaking his head in annoyance as he reached over and grabbed the violin case. Sherlock took it wordlessly, fondling it almost lovingly while he laid on the sofa, his right foot still twitching. Days. It had been days.

Sherlock was an amazingly self aware person, he knew he was simply not able to just sit around the house lazing about without purpose. He needed stimulation, the mind must have continuous use, it needs to be stretched and tested regularly if it is expected to remain in perfect working order, especially one as exceptionally brilliant as his own. Surely there was someone out there who had the urge, who felt the pull to the dark, the need to sink into depraved behavior, to kill, to commit a crime. Something. Nearly anything, at this point. He was so bored! He needed something! Something to chase, to hunt! He sighed, a scowl pulling at his features. John’s quiet calm, only a few feet away, only made him more desperate for action.

His violin case forgotten on the cushion, Sherlock stood swiftly, pacing around the room, circling around behind John’s chair as the smaller man sipped his coffee. His robe fluttered behind him, chasing him, clinging to his frame as he walked.  
“What’s got you so worked up?” John asked, the breath in his voice hinting at his fatigue.  
“Nothing, John, that’s the point. Absolutely nothing.” He groaned, sweeping his hand through the air as he spoke. “I can’t just sit around drinking coffee John, I’m bored! I need something to do!”  
“Well you could always have a go at bathing. How long has it been since you’ve showered? Two, three days? Then there is the state of the kitchen. Have you looked in the fridge? I’m not sure about you, but I can not live off of bat intestines and spoiled milk. Would it kill you to do a bit of shopping?” John accused, taking another sip of his coffee.  
“It very well might, yes.” Sherlock mumbled, suddenly preoccupied with a flash of yellow out of the window. Some woman walking down the sidewalk, what an awful color she was wearing. It looked like a cross between too ripe bananas and an infants puke.

“Yes well you might as well give it a go, seeing as you’ve got nothing else to do.” John voiced from behind him. Sherlock turned away from the window and it’s distractions and walked briskly around to the front of John’s chair, leaning down quickly to place his hands on each of the chairs arms. John’s eyes widened, the back of his head pressed firmly against the back of the chair in attempt to gain some distance from his sudden proximity.

“And I suppose that you have more important things to do today?” Sherlock asked, his low voice showing more interest than he had intended. He watched John’s throat convulse as he swallowed before he answered.  
“Sherlock, remember that conversation we had about personal space?”  
“You must have something important to do today, maybe that is the reason you had trouble sleeping last night. Is it? Do you have an appointment? You don’t have to work today, so it’s something else. We have no cases, your therapist appointment isn’t until next tuesday. None of these would cause your current level of stress anyway. What is it John? Tell me.” Sherlock ordered, studying John’s flushed face from only inches away. He could see his pulse beating in his neck, quickly, too quickly.

“If you must know, I have, well, I have a date.” John said, after his gaze flickered down in a brief moments hesitation before he stared at Sherlock in what could have only been defiance. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but didn’t move away.  
“A date? Yes that would explain it. With who? Some little twit from the hospital?” He asked, unable to disguise his irritation.  
“She is not a twit and yes, from the hospital. Not that it is any concern of yours.” John added sternly. His assumption nearly made Sherlock smile.

The urge was smothered by another thought, sneaking unbidden into his superior mind. John was always so preoccupied when he was, Sherlock nearly gagged at the mere thought of the word, _dating_ someone. As someone who admittedly needed attention and admiration to thrive, he had come to dislike John’s relationships. John was the only human on the face of the earth who found Sherlock’s gifts as impressive rather than haughty and threatening, and he voiced his awed delight often, praise that Sherlock had unintentionally come to depend on. He couldn’t have John pulling away again, not now when he needed the attention the most. No, of course not. Something would have to be done.

“How are you going to have time for a date if you’re supposed to be taking me shopping?” Sherlock inquired, his face still only inches away from Johns.  
“Nice try Sherlock, but you can go shopping on your own. I am not cancelling my plans.”  
“No you can’t, I need your help. I have no idea which peanut butter to buy, and there is the slight possibility that I might get lost on the way.” He insisted, his eyes boring into John’s. He watched as John fidgeted, enjoying his obvious discomfort. He was so easily bothered.  
“You can’t possibly be serious. It is impossible to buy the wrong kind of peanut butter. And what do you mean you might get lost? Surely you’ve been to the market before.” John said, his tone disbelieving.  
“Quite wrong you are, as usual. Really, how do you stand it? There are precisely twenty seven different kinds of peanut butter, and no. Could you imagine? How mundane.”

Sherlock sighed with frustration, letting his head fall forward and to the side, resting against the side of the chair, a mere breath away from John’s face. He sensed rather than saw John squirm again, but he was too distracted to care.  
“I love when you insult me. Please, do it again. Do we have to be so close to have this conversation?” He asked, trying unsuccessfully to clear his throat. Sherlock could feel the tickle of his breath on the side of his face. He jerked away suddenly, as if he only just realized indeed how close they had become. He stood ramrod straight, tugging at the lapels of his striped silk dressing gown.

“John, you simply can’t leave. I need you here tonight.” He insisted and he stepped away from John to pace around the back of his chair again, but not before he noticed the red flush on his flatmates cheeks and neck that still hadn’t faded.

It was unnerving to see the physical proof of how much John was affected by him. Unnerving, and strangely flattering. Sherlock had no romantic notions towards his flatmate, his only friend. But then again, Sherlock had never had romantic notions about anyone. He regarded himself to be above such vular needs. Sex was only a distraction from the work, and a very temporary distraction at that.

Not to say that he had never thought about it, had never considered it. Of course he had seen people that he considered to be beautiful, both men and women, but not had ever appealed to him on that level. John was interesting to him, yes. Of course he had considered it, yes, the first moment that he laid eyes on the man. Attractive, but in a more rugged, distinguished way. Short, very short for a man, but well shaped. His face was appealing, but that was about the end of it. He was completely ordinary.

And yet, the flush of his skin fascinated Sherlock, more so now than it would have when they first met only three months ago. He had the strangest urge to lean back down, to close the distance again, to see if he could reignite the now fading blush. But of course, he was well controlled, and he had no intention of acting on such an idiotic and useless compulsion.

In the seconds that had passed as he contemplated this, John had sighed, running a hand over his haggard face.  
“I think you can manage one night on your own Sherlock. If you’re feeling that wrong about it, call up Mrs. Hudson to keep you company.” He stood and nodded with a finality that said the discussion was closed. Sherlock huffed, glaring at him while he briefly contemplated violence. John stood his ground, looking up at him expectantly. His sandy hair was indeed a mess, sticking up in every direction. Sherlock had a sudden sensory image of running his hand through it, pulling it up and away from his scalp. Not quite so pure scientific curiosity had him wondering what kind of expression John would make as he tugged at it, perhaps pulling his head back so that Sherlock could see his face properly.

Had his mind suddenly become addled this morning? Was this how his superior encephalon had unconsciously, since he had obviously not purposefully chosen to do so, decided to deal with his exceptional ennui, by _fantasizing_ about _John_? The idea certainly had possibilities, but he wasn’t going to act on it, despite his suspicions that John might not be completely put off by the idea, if he was being honest with himself.

Sherlock let his gaze flicker down, taking in his disgruntled roommates appearance, his flannels misbuttoned in his haste, unwrinkled even though Sherlock knew he had gone to bed sometime early this morning. If he had slept in them, they would be wrinkled, but since they were obviously not, it must mean that John had slept in the nude, or at the very least in only his underwear.  
“Sherlock? Are you feeling well?” John asked, the tone of his voice now concerned. Sherlock snapped his eyes back up to Johns face, realizing that he had disappeared inside of his mind for more than a few moments. They both knew that that kind of behavior was not exactly abnormal for him, but John still showed concern nonetheless. How emotional of him.

“I’m fine.” He replied, gathering his wits. He suddenly had the urge to shower. He needed to be alone, away from John. “I am going to take your advice and go clean up a bit. Have fun on your _date_.” He said, tugging at his lapels again. Before John could manage a response, he stepped around him and out of the room.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am so sorry that this update took so long. The day after I posted Chapter One, I lost internet. I am currently using my phone as a hotspot to post this. Crappy connection, but it serves it's purpose well enough. This story is already complete so all I have to do is update, which I will probably do every Monday and Friday. I hope you enjoy it, please review. <3

Chapter Two

 

John had to force down the sigh that threatened to rise up in his chest. It wasn’t easy. Dinner had been lovely of course, the conversation had been good, Kate was pretty, in a soft kind of way, but the night was winding to a close and all he felt was a sense of impatience. He just wanted to go home.

When had this become a chore? Of course he wanted a relationship, he was tired of sleeping alone, of wanking off in the middle of the night when he absolutely needed a physical release and having no one else to give him one. It had been a long time, too long, since he had been with a woman. He was happy with his life, certainly. He had a decent if a little boring job at the hospital. He had a great gig going with Sherlock. Honestly, the cases were the highlight of his life. He felt alive when they worked together, solving elaborate crimes that would evade all but the brightest of minds. And Sherlock, for all his faults, was such a mind.

John’s life had changed drastically since Sherlock Holmes had accosted him that fateful day, sticking his nose into John’s business and practically forcing him to move in with him. It was possibly the most reckless decision he had ever made. And he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Sherlock was rude, impossible, childish, intimidating, eccentric, and bloody brilliant. He was most definitely the most amazing man that John had ever met. John was still helpless as he watched him work, unable to do anything but gape in amazement and he came to conclusions that simply blew his mind. It was impressive, his dark intelligence, his thoughtless and cutting wit. He drew John in, as though he was a great big magnet and John was powerless to resist his pull. No matter how many times Sherlock insulted him, forgot him, berated him and pushed him around, John just kept going back for more. He couldn’t help himself.

As for the situation earlier that morning, when Sherlock leaned in so close, his deep voice nearly whispering in John’s ear, he had the strangest urge to press just a little bit closer… Which of course was ridiculous, as he was not attracted to men, and not the least amount attracted to Sherlock. At least not in _that_ way. Sherlock, for all John knew, was celibate. He had never seen the man show any interest in anyone, he lived for his work, as he had told him himself.

Of course, that didn’t stop everyone else from assuming that the two of them were together. John had stopped trying to deny it, as he saw no point when Sherlock simply smiled charmingly and glossed over the subject as though sparing John the uncomfortable discussion about their private life _together_. John sometimes suspected that Sherlock let the rumors about their relationship spread, even encouraged it. Why, he had no clue.

“John? Are you ready to go?” Kate asked, her voice sinking into him slowly. Her dark brown hair slid over her shoulder as she leaned forward, studying his face. He smiled apologetically at her as he sat back in his chair. How long had he been staring off in space, thinking about his bloody roommate?  
“Yes, I am.” He replied, before slipping a suitable stack of bills on the table before they stood and took their leave.

Not long after he was sliding the key into the door at 221 B Baker Street. He found that he didn’t regret that Kate had not invited him over to her flat, or that they had parted a little too easily. Relief flooded through him as he closed the door behind him, locking it and walking up the familiar stairs. He could hear a rustling, a frustrated sound that made him smile.

“No, no, no, I will not have it. I will simply not have it.” Sherlocks smooth irate voice beckoned at him from the kitchen as he closed the front door behind him. He stood there, in front of the fridge, his tall body bent at the waist over the sink and wearing nothing but a wrinkled grey sheet. John’s grey sheet. From his bed.  
“Sherlock, why are you wrapped up in my sheet?” He asked, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen. Sherlock didn’t turn as he answered, but continued to stay bent, intent on whatever held his attention on the counter.  
“My sheets are dirty. I needed a sheet. Yours had to do. How long have you been back?”  
“I’ve only just arrived. What are you doing?” John asked, walking into the kitchen and around Sherlock's body to see what he was studying.

His eye was glued to a microscope, fiddling with the dials with one hand as he held his sheet with the other. A small glass slide was in place, with a dark hair secured between the glass. John briefly considered asking who’s hair he was studying, but thought better of it. He probably didn’t want to know.  
“Sherlock, I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed. Please tell me you have something on under that sheet so I can have it back.” He said, leaning against the counter as the pale man mumbled something unintelligible to himself. “Sherlock, my sheet, please.”

“Do you realize what this means?” He suddenly asked, turning to John and invading his personal space. Again. His bright blue eyes stared eagerly at John, willing him to understand his most recent epiphany.  
“No, but do enlighten me.” John said, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it on the counter.  
“Though this hair is, I am disappointed to admit, free of any type of drug, it holds plenty more that needs to be discussed and considered if you are to enter into a long term relationship with this woman.” Sherlock began, gesturing at the slide as he did so.  
“Wait, is that Kate’s hair?” John asked, gaping at his flatmate. Sherlock, of course, ignored his question.  
“There are quite a few dust fibers attached to the strand, which can only mean that the girl hardly ever cleans and her flat is probably a downright disaster.”  
“Oh you’re one to talk! How did you get that hair?” John demanded. He could feel the angry red flush creeping up his neck.  
“I’ve also found traces of sodium bentonite clay. Do you know what that is John? Cat litter! Cat litter, John! She has cats!” Sherlock professed, moving even closer to John’s face.  
“Oh for the love of-”  
“I can not handle the cats John!” Sherlock nearly pleaded, his arm swinging up in the air as he threw what surely amounted to be a fit. John tried to turn away, determined to walk away and leave Sherlock to his insanity. He was foiled however, when Sherlocks free hand suddenly lashed out and gripped his shoulder tightly, swinging him back around.

“Did you have a nice evening then?” He asked, his voice deceptively light. John opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off again. “Was dinner good? I’ve had the ravioli from Lettie’s, it is quite delicious. I’m sure you enjoyed it. Did she talk too much? Did you enjoy the way her shirt lingered just a little too low to be decent? Did she bat her eyes at you enough? Or were you not paying attention? What were you thinking of, John, as she attempted to flit her simple mind and shapely tits at you?” Sherlock asked, his tone growing more and more uneven as he spoke. John could only stare up at him in amazement as, once again, Sherlock baffled him.  
“Did you follow me?” He asked, unable to say anything else.  
“And why did you show such a loss of interest near the close of the evening. The poor twit was obviously enraptured by you, even despite your lack of enthusiasm.” He asked, his voice going even lower, his face so close that if either of them breathed too deeply they might touch.

John was befuddled, he couldn’t think straight. Sherlock had shown signs of displeasure before when it came to John’s dates, but he had always assumed that Sherlock was merely not used to not having all of the attention. But this, this level of distaste was something else entirely. This was almost unhealthy.  
“What has come over you?” John suddenly asked, and he might as well have slapped Sherlock, the dark haired man recoiled so fast, grasping the sheet tighter around himself.  
“I’ve decided that I’m tired too. I’m going to retire. I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.” He said, his voice completely back to normal. John stared as Sherlock marched rigidly away from him and towards his bedroom. It wasn’t until he was halfway across the room that John thought to inquire halfheartedly about his sheet, to which Sherlock responded by, without the slightest pause, simply letting the garment fall, leaving his naked arse to slam the door so hard that it rattled the frame.

John gaped at the door for a moment, his mouth hanging open in which surely must be an unattractive manner before he was able to gather his wits enough to stride across the room and snatch his crumpled sheet off of the floor. He huffed, folding it over his arm and strode quickly back to his room, mumbling to himself about ridiculous flatmates and temper tantrums as he began to undress. It wasn’t until he had crawled into bed, his sheet tucked firmly around him, that he realized that it smelled of Sherlock.

 

The sound of Sherlock's violin woke John, the strings being ripped at so quickly that the screeching must have been easily heard half a mile away. John groaned, twisting around and shoving a pillow over his head in an attempt to escape the wretched noise.

Sherlock was quite the talented violinist, of this there was no question, but it was obvious to John that he was playing this morning to express his frustration, rather than to enjoy the music. John soon gave up his listless effort to go back to sleep and pulled himself out of his bed, dressing quickly before heading to the loo.

When John entered the sitting area minutes later, he found Sherlock standing on the coffee table in the middle of the sitting room, fully dressed in his royal purple button up and black trousers, his bare feet pale against the wood as he blessed the instrument with undivided attention. He decided to set about making coffee, conscious of his flatmate’s demanding ruckus in the next room.

John was nearly finished, settling the cups into their saucers, when the screeching came to a sudden halt. He stilled, listening, waiting for some sign of Sherlocks mood from the previous night to resurface. He was listening so intently, that the sharp sound of Sherlock's violin case being set on the counter directly behind him made him jump.

“My God, Sherlock. You nearly scared me out of my skin. Stomp or something, would you?” John stuttered, returning to his coffee.  
“It is not my fault that you are sorrowfully unobservant.” He replied dryly, holding a hand out for his cup. John scowled up at him, but handed him the cup and saucer regardless.

“Feeling better this morning?” John asked, wary of Sherlocks response as he leaned against the counter, facing his flatmate.  
“Marginally. Though I would feel much better if we had a damn case. Have you checked our email?” He asked, narrowing his sharp eyes at John over the rim of his cup.  
“Not yet, but I will.” John answered, unable to fully disguise the relief in his voice. Sherlock stared at him, those intrusive eyes burning a hole into his skin.

John suddenly had a very vivid image of Sherlocks naked backside, his long legs flexing as he walked across the room away from him. A warm sensation in the pit of his stomach made him pause, redness creeping up his neck. What in the world was that about?

Sherlock’s eyes, if possible, narrowed even more, as though he could just see what John was thinking. John was, thank God, spared the inevitable question when they heard a knock at the door. Sherlock didn’t move an inch, his eyes still fixated on Johns face, following him as the shorter man inched around him and towards the door.

Mrs. Hudson stood there, her kind face smiling sweetly as she held up a covered porcelain dish.  
“Good morning, I made some breakfast and I thought you boys might be hungry? I’ve got some eggs and lovely spiced sausage from the meatery down the street.” She simpered, handing the dish to John.  
“Ah thank you Mrs. Hudson, how nice of you. Sherlock? Fancy some breakfast?” He called, turning and allowing Mrs. Hudson to follow him into the apartment. Sherlock was still standing by the counter, but his eyes were staring off in space, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Ignoring him, John set the dish on the counter and pulled the cover off carefully. The smell of sausage wafted up at him, causing his mouth to water.

“This looks fantastic.” He said, smiling over at his elderly landlady.  
“Oh it tastes wonderful too, that nice man at the meatery recommended it, said it was fresh off the rack-” Her words were interrupted by another knock at the door. Sherlock sighed next to him.  
“Well aren’t we popular this morning.” He said, his words coming out sounding more irritable than pleased.

John excused himself and walked back to the door, opening it to find Detective Lestrade standing there, his expression pained. As though he sensed his presence, Sherlock stuck his head around the corner brightly.  
“Detective, how are you this lovely morning?” He inquired, his entire attitude changing. John rolled his eyes, preparing to scarf down a quick breakfast before they needed to leave.  
“Dark business, I’m afraid. I need you to come take a look at a crime scene for me…” His words faded out as John hastily scraped some eggs and sausage on a plate, giving Mrs. Hudson a quick peck on the cheek before carrying the plate to his room. He dressed quickly, stealing a bite between slipping on his pants and buttoning up his shirt.

By the time he entered the kitchen, Sherlock was already impeccably dressed and sharp as a tack. He was questioning the detective eagerly, more eagerly than usual, probably because he was so excited that there was finally some work to be done.

“John? John are you coming?” Sherlock called from near the door, where the detective was departing.  
“Do you need me to?” John called back, more out of habit than curiosity as he placed his empty plate in the sink before rounding the corner to see Sherlock waiting for him expectantly, with a smile on his face.  
“Of course John. I’ll always need my doctor.”


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

  
  


Sherlock inhaled a slow, deep breath of damp air. There was nothing special or specific about the location, chosen only for it’s proximity to the busy causeway, ensuring that the victim would be found quickly. The concrete was wet and cracked under their feet, weeds growing stubbornly from between the crevices. A distant hum of steady traffic permeated the background, but the sound hadn’t bothered _her._

 

The pale touch of death had grasped tightly to the corpse, rendering her more perfect than surely she had ever looked alive. Someone, whoever had deposited her here so courteously, had cleansed her of all the grime, all the flaws that daily activity would have inflicted upon her. Her hair was freshly brushed, combed meticulously, until every individual strand lay perfectly, just the way the killer intended. Her hands and feet were clean, scrubbed and even filed, no lines from uncomfortable heels or traces of cotton fibers from her socks or gloves. Her makeup was matte and immaculate, applied for her after death, as there was no trace of oil shine or signs of her fingers touching her face after her application. No woman alive kept their makeup that perfect, there were always smudges of fingers brushing against the face, or extra shine in the hair, from where it picked up oil from the skin.

 

She lay straight, with hands draped serenely over her abdomen, obviously placed very deliberately and carefully. Her body was stark naked, minus the elegant, deep purple silk ribbon tied around her pretty throat. Someone had gone through great trouble to position her this way.

 

“John?” He asked, not bothering to take his eyes from the body. A head of sandy colored hair entered his view as John kneeled down, gently prodding and examining. Sherlock waited patiently while he formed his assessment.

“No signs of physical trauma, no wounds that I can see. Probably drugged or poisoned. Dead nearly twelve hours, by the signs of rigor.” John said, still crouched in front of him. His evaluation was quick and professional, another trait that he had acquired from his military service that Sherlock admired and appreciated.

 

Lestrade stood on the other side of the body, watching Sherlock and waiting, rocking back and forth slightly, his hands in his coat pockets. His gaunt face and shadowed eyes suggested that he hadn’t gotten more than six hours of sleep. The way he pressed his palm into his abdomen suggested that he hadn’t yet eaten breakfast, but he _had_ had coffee judging by the stain on his tie. Sherlock knew that he was in no mood to mince words this morning, so he kept it quick.

 

“Her killer either knew her or took her when her guard was down, sleeping or otherwise occupied and unaware of her presence. The lack of struggle or visible cause of death suggests that she is uncomfortable with the hands on approach, which is appropriate considering the most likely cause of death was some type of poison or drug. She was stripped after the deed was done, and cleaned up nicely, the killer even applied her makeup, before placing her here for the world to see. Exposed.”

 

“What makes you think the killer was a woman?” Lastrade asked, his tired eyes watching Sherlock intently. John had stood, stepping away from the corpse and averting his eyes now that his work was done. Always the gentleman.

 

“The way she was killed, kindly instead of violent, poison or a sedative, usually a womans preferred method. There is no sign of sexual contact, another hint that the killer is female, or at least not attracted to women. Her make up was done very well, also suggesting that whoever applied it was a women. Men usually do not have the skill or practice required to apply makeup like this. The question, which should be obvious, is what is the purpose of the silk?” He drifted off, studying the dainty piece of cloth wrapped around her neck.

 

John and Lastrade were silent as they observed him bend his knees, holding his coat out of the way with one hand so that he could examine it more closely.

“Gloves.” he ordered, holding a hand up expectantly without taking his eyes off of the ribbon. He heard John sigh before turning to fetch a pair of gloves from some police individuals nearby.

 

Purple silk, why purple silk? And why around her neck? It must mean something, something personal about the killer or something personal about the victim. She wouldn’t go through all this trouble to make her look _just this_ way without there being a particular meaning behind it… so why purple silk?

 

His hand was still waiting expectantly when John placed the gloves in his palm. He pulled his fingers through the rubber distastefully, snapping them into place before gently examining the knot. It was professionally cut, with no label that Sherlock could see. He rubbed the smooth fabric through his fingers, familiarizing himself with the feel of it.

 

“Well if you’re both finished here?” Lastrade inquired, sighing with fatigue. Sherlock stood slowly, but didn’t bother to reply.

“Yes, I think we are. Thank you, detective.” John answered, courteously.

“I’ll call you if we get another one.” Lastrade said, waving the rest of his team over to complete their work.

“You two lovebirds have a good day!” Sally yelled as they strode away.

 

“What do you think?” John asked him as they walked back towards the main street to catch a cab.

“I think this is going to be interesting.” Sherlock answered simply, smiling to himself as they walked.

“Interesting? Looking at naked, dead women is interesting to you is it?” John muttered, without any real crossness. Sherlock merely barked out a quick laugh.

 

“Fancy stopping for a cup of coffee?” John inquired as they reached the main street.

“No. I hate stopping at that vile little coffee shop. That sludge is dreadful, and the little man at the counter always stares at me.” He said, aware but unconcerned with the haughty tone in his own voice.

“Yes well it’s better than nothing.” John argued, watching as Sherlock hailed a cabbie.

“If you’re on your way out of the house and in a hurry, yes. But not when you’re on your way home. I know for a fact that you, my dear John, can make a more acceptable brew at home. You can make us some there. Ah look, here we go.” He finished, pulling the cab door open before the vehicle even came to a complete stop.  

 

True to from, John busied himself with the pot as soon as they walked into the flat. Ignoring him, Sherlock pulled off his scarf and coat, draping them absently over the metal hook just inside the door. He collapsed on the couch, bringing his fingers together in front of him, pressing them to his mouth as he ran through the crime scene in his head.

 

The purple silk… clean skin, filed finger and toenails to perfection, the purple silk, the make up, the direct placement of her hands, her nudity, _the purple silk_ … He was missing something… but what? The damn purple silk…

 

“Coffee?” John asked, holding the cup inches away from Sherlock arm. Sherlock swatted his arm in his general direction wordlessly. How could John think of coffee at a time like this? Someone was trying to send a message, a message hidden in a dark knot of silk, but what was the message? What was the significance? Certainly there was a significance. She was clean, plain. Nothing notable, except for that knot around her neck. Like washing a canvas before applying the paint…

 

“... shouldn’t be back too late, by any note.” John’s voice stirred in him, halting his thoughts like the snap of a rubber band.

“What?” He quipped, sitting up suddenly, his attention focused on his flatmate. John was squirming, his eyes darting down at his cup, his usually stiff military posture somewhat wavering. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“I said, I’ll be going out again tonight, but I shouldn’t be back too late.” He repeatedly strongly, steeling himself.

“You can’t be serious. I require your assistance here, John. There is work to be done.” He said, never taking his eyes off of his roommate.

“You don’t need me for this Sherlock, and you’ll be fine without me for a few hours at any rate.” John said, holding his ground.

“No no no, I need you here. You know I work better when I talk aloud. I need your input.” He insisted, unhappy with the way that John was shaking his head.

“You mean you want me to listen to you mutter nonsense under the pretense of assisting. Talk to your skull. I won’t be out long.”

“The skull doesn’t talk back John! I need you here!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sherlock. You don’t need me. I am going. You’ll be fine.”

“Why are you so determined to go out?” Sherlock nearly yelled, his voice growing louder to match his increasing frustration.

“Companionship, Sherlock!” John yelled back, flustered and finally letting his temper show. Without giving him a reprieve, Sherlock pushed harder.

“That’s what you’ve got me for!”

“WelI I don’t get off with you, do I!”

 

Sherlock paused, frowning, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at John. John, whose nostrils were flaring with his embarrassed indignation. The marvelous flush of his cheeks were a telltale, he hadn’t meant to let that last part slip out. Suddenly the redness of his skin, his uncomfortable figiting, his hedging reluctance to discuss any romantic situation with Sherlock, all took on a new meaning.

 

So John wanted to get off, did he? Was that all this was about, his need for sex? The one piece of a relationship that he wasn’t receiving from Sherlock? Isn’t that what a relationship was, conversation, spending copious amounts of time with one another, enjoying the company of that select person? He did and felt these things with John, more than any other person on the planet. That was enough for him.

 

But was it enough for John? No, obviously not, if he was so inclined to spend time with someone who was not Sherlock. John needed a relationship that included sexual contact as well, which Sherlock couldn’t give him.

 

Or could he? No. He banished the thought immediately. But what if…? He looked at John, who was still quite red in the face and huffing uncomfortably. Did Sherlock even find him attractive? Well, yes, he supposed. He was rather dull, but so was everyone.

 

But no, that wasn’t quite true either, was it? John was not dull at all. Perhaps a little slow intellectually, but never dull. He was, unfailingly loyal, and more devoted to Sherlock than he really deserved. Perhaps more devoted than was normal. Could it be? Could it be possible, and for him to have never noticed before?

 

He looked more closely at John, who was frowning at him now. The tiny beads of sweat at his temple, the way he brushed imaginary dirt off of his knee, his lower lip protruding only just a bit… The way he attended to Sherlock on a daily basis, cooked for him, cleaned up after him, took care of him without ever asking anything in return. His subtle shyness, his eagerness to help, his unwavering, if unconscious, affection.  

 

Yes, it was quite possible. Quite probable, in fact. Now who was the dull one!

 

“Yes well, I’ll uh, I’ll be off then.” He said, clearing his throat as he stood. Unable to speak through the depth of his sudden realization, Sherlock didn’t react. He let him walk away, unhindered and oblivious.

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know my update is two days late, and I sincerely apologize. They will continue Friday as scheduled.

Chapter Four

  
  


A soft jingle from his pocket alerted John of the text. The one that he just _knew_ was from Sherlock. He kept his eyes on Kate, determined to ignore it. She showed no sign of having heard the gentle sound, continuing to talk about her family without pause. John listened patiently, even smiled at her comment about hers and her sisters childhood antics, but the phone in his pocket seemed to grow heavier and heavier as the minutes ticked by.

 

John’s hand twitched involuntarily towards his pocket when it went off for the second time.  How could such a tiny noise sound so insistent? Kate noticed his movement, despite it’s understatedness.

“Do you need to get that?” She asked politely, her eyes glancing down at his pocket. John grimaced. No, he certainly did not _need_ to get that. But he would, regardless.

“Yes, so sorry, just a moment.” He responded, smiling apologetically. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, studying the screen with a sense of apprehension.

 

**Pass me the computer.**

 

A knot of stress that he hadn’t known existed uncurled in his chest. A need to head straight back to their flat accosted him. A ridiculous need, but a need nonetheless.

“Do you need to leave?” Kate asked, her pretty face on the verge of a frown.

“Ah, yes. I’m so sorry. Something has come up.” He answered, without thinking. What was he doing? He was ruining a perfectly good chance with this perfectly good woman. He paused, trying to decided what to do.

“Look, John. I’ve had a great time, really, but it seems to me that you’ve got a lot on your mind and you’re just too busy for a relationship. It was lovely to see you, but I think we should leave it here for a while. Later on, when you have attention to spare, feel free to call me.” She stood as she spoke, then dipped down to kiss him tenderly, and a little wistfully, on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

 

John watched her walk away, dumbfounded and distracted, unable to believe that it had happened again. Damn Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, destroyer of chances with perfectly good women. John ran a hand over his face, sighing. _Pass me the computer._

 

Squaring his shoulders, he stood. No point in moping and going on about it now. The damage was done. He left a bill on the table, enough to cover their unfinished meal, and strode out of the restaurant. It was raining when he walked out onto the sidewalk, big, fat drops that hit the concrete and scattered, pelting his legs and soaking him from the bottom up.

 

He hailed a cab and climbed inside quickly, slamming the door with haste to avoid the downpour.

“221 B Baker Street, please.” He informed the cabbie before leaning back to stare out the window. The rain was so thick that the view through the glass was merely a muggy, grey blur. Thoughts of the water seemed to drain away, thoughts of Sherlock seeping in to take their place.

 

John could just picture him, crouched on the couch, his bare feet tucked under him, patiently waiting for him to arrive and hand him the bloody computer. Why did the thought start a smile, creeping across his face without consent? What should have irritated him, instead gave him a sense of rightness, of anticipation. He wanted to be home, he wanted to give him the laptop. He wanted that small nod, that brief eye contact, that smallest of moments where Sherlock was focused solely on John and John alone. _Pass me the computer._

 

And it terrified him. Had he always been this desperate for Sherlock's attention? Surely not. Had he? Of course it was flattering for a man as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes to give anyone any kind of specialized treatment. There was no reason why John shouldn’t be pleased about it.

 

But this was different, something had changed. He was anxious, almost desperate to be home. Since when? Since when had the thought of things not working out with Kate not caused him unhappiness? Because he was not unhappy now, even knowing that she no longer wished to see him. He was just in a rush to be home. To be near him. _Pass me the computer._

 

What the bloody hell had come over him? He sat in the back of the cab, his brow furrowed in concentration as he thought about his flatmate. About his wit and his subtle, lean grace. About his piercing, knowledgeable eyes and the way they had looked at him only hours before, widened in what almost appeared to be amazement after John's uncomfortable outburst. _Pass me the computer._

 

The way those blue eyes had looked at him, at only him, as if he was seeing him for the first time. The way thoughts stirred in his gaze, things that John was sure he didn’t want to know or even consider. Or did he?

 

_Pass me the computer._

He swallowed, his fingers tapping nervously on his knee as the cab grew ever nearer to the one place he wanted to be, but was suddenly terrified of arriving at. What was he going to say when he got there? Would it be awkward? Would Sherlock still have that look in his eyes? Would he mention it, this newfound realization that they had both come to, albeit separately? That there was a possibility, however slight, that there could be more between them?

 

And would John even consider it? No, impossible. But was it, really? Yes, it was Sherlock. A man, who would surely be even more difficult to deal with, were they in an actual relationship. A man, who had never had a previous lover that John was aware of. A man, who before had shown no interest or even the slightest intent towards anything more than friendship with John. A man who, without even realizing it, he had become utterly devoted to.

 

_Pass me the computer._

 

The words, even in his voice, rang in his ears as the cab stopped in front of 221 B Baker Street. John found himself handing the cabbie the appropriate change and stepped rigidly from the vehicle, now nearly oblivious to the drenching rain. The door loomed in front of him, beckoning him, frightening him.

 

It was warmer inside, and brighter, though still dim. John walked the steps slowly, drawing out his last few seconds before he had to face his flatmate. Those seconds were stolen from him, however, when Sherlock opened the door just as his fingers brushed the knob. He stood there, light framing his outline, his face lit up and exhilarated. It was late, but he was still fully dressed, and John couldn’t help but notice how the pale blue of his shirt made the blue of his eyes seem darker than usual.

“John! Come, I’ve had a thought.” He ordered, ushering him into the flat. The door snapped shut behind them and John watched with surprise as Sherlock strode into the living room and pointed dramatically at the computer screen.

 

"Got a little impatient, did you?" He mumbled before he walked over, squinting his eyes at the screen. A tailoring shop’s website glared back at him, some nondescript place that John had never heard of. He looked up at Sherlock, who was obviously waiting eagerly for John to arrive at the same conclusion that he had.

“Right, well, it’s a shop.” He said, gesturing plainly at the screen.

“Ugh, well of course it’s a shop! A shop that specializes in fitting silk. Silk, John!” He said, as though this was the answer to everything. In Sherlock’s blissfully aware mind, it probably was.

 

“I think I’ll go put on a cup of tea while you tell me why this is so important.” John said, unable to completely suppress the smile tugging at his mouth as he turned away.

“The ribbon around the woman’s neck, the lining was smooth, unhemmed, suggesting that it was cut. But the lines were uneven, so it was cut by hand. Probably from a scarf or a shirt, but judging from the thickness of the material, shirt is more likely. There is only one place within fifty miles who sells silk shirts of that quality.  And it is _this shop_.” He finished, pointing at the screen grandly. “It’s not a terrible place actually, I own a few of their pieces myself, quite a nice fit, not too short in the arm-” He added, tugging at his shirt as he spoke before he suddenly stopped, his eyes snapping up to John’s face.

 

“You. You left.” He said, his head turning to the side slightly as he spoke, but never taking his eyes from John. John’s fingers nearly faltered in his task, but he suppressed the shake as he poured water from the kettle.

“I told you I was leaving. You were looking right at me Sherlock, you can’t tell me that you didn’t notice me leave-”

“No, no, you left in the middle of our discussion.” He revised, waving away John’s words. John hesitated for a moment, hating himself for it, knowing that Sherlock’s eyes would see his discomfort. Sherlocks eyes saw everything.

 

“It was hardly a discussion Sherlock. More of a row. Anyway, I don’t see why we need to hash through that again.” He said, trying to keep his voice light.

“Wrong. We do need to discuss it, because it is distracting me and I can’t have distractions.” Sherlock insisted, placing his long fingered hands on the counter between them. “We need to talk about your need for intimacy.” John felt his neck heat up, blush creeping up his skin to his ears.

“That is my personal business Sherlock and you’re daft if you think I’m going to talk about it with-”

“Would you like to be intimate with me?” Sherlock asked, interrupting him smoothly. John nearly choked, the heat in his skin going from an uncomfortable warmth to a raging wildfire.

“Sherlock! That’s not- you’re- that’s not funny!” He finally spat out, pointing at his flatmate angrily. Sherlock had to be joking. He had to be. There was no way he was serious, no way he would even consider-

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. Really John, do keep up. I was making you a logical proposition to best suit our individual needs. I need you to stay here, with me. You need to, as you like to put it, ‘get off’, so I see this as the most ideal option.” Sherlock offered, his voice much, much too even for his words.

 

John gaped at him, unwilling to even think about the possibility that Sherlock was being serious. But he was thinking about it. Now that he had said it, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Him and Sherlock, together. In all the ways that would make them a couple. Not only living together and solving crimes, not only late dinners and laughing together and sharing private jokes, but kissing and touching and sleeping in the same bed. Having someone there in the night, when he woke up from terrors of his time in Afghanistan or shaking with physical need so fierce that he needed someone’s touch. And not just any someone. Sherlock.

 

His flatmate seemed to be waiting, a little impatiently as John thought it over. John opened his mouth to speak, thought about it, then closed it again. What should he say? He couldn’t just say yes, under the off chance that Sherlock was, for some stupid reason, tormenting him. But what if he said no and Sherlock was being serious? He would never offer this again. This would be his only chance to accept this offer.

 

But wait, did he want to? He hadn’t even thought about whether or not _he_ wanted to be with Sherlock, his mind had jumped straight into whether or not Sherlock really wanted to be with him. That mental response alone should have answered his question.

 

Did Sherlock even realize what he was proposing? John wasn’t even positive that he had ever been intimate with anyone, let alone another man. If that was true, why offer this to John? Why him? Another, more horrible thought occurred to him.

 

What if they actually agreed to this, what if they began and John got attached, only for Sherlock to grow bored and end it? Could John live through that? He felt the color drain out of his face, and watched Sherlock judge his reaction, his eyes widening. No. No he could not live through that.

 

“What did you just think of? What was that?” Sherlock asked, studying John’s face in a way that was more scientific interest than care for his flatmate.

“Nothing. I can’t talk about this right now Sherlock. I’m going to bed.” He walked from behind the counter towards the stairs, needing to get away. But of course, Sherlock had no intention of letting him leave.

“No, stop. Tell me. What are you thinking?” He ordered, grabbing John by the shoulder. A sharp flare of pain from his old injury shot through him, making him groan.

“Sherlock let me go.” He ordered through gritted teeth. To his surprise, he obeyed. But he stepped around John, in front of him, blocking his way to the stairs.

 

“I still expect an answer John.” He insisted, his beautiful voice low with determination. John looked up at him, unable to stop the possibilities from forming in his mind. Sherlock’s dark curly hair mussed from fingers and being presses against pillows. His eyes glazed over, but still intense, unable to slow his brain even for something as consuming as sex. His voice, his annoyingly loud and utterly brilliant voice, saying _his_ name with lust ridden tones.  

 

John took a step back, running a hand over his face. Now that he was seeing it, now that there was even the smallest possibility, he couldn’t _stop seeing it._

 

Sherlock Holmes, beautiful, impossibly unattainable man… devoted to _him._

 

“John?” Oh, his voice. John’s name, coming from that mouth, over and over, deep and rough with the kind of pleasure that John suspected he had never experienced.

“Yes?” He answered, his voice hoarse.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, taking a step closer. John held one hand out as if to stop him, while his other hand was pressed into his aching shoulder.

“Did you mean it?” John asked. He began to rephrase, to clarify. But of course, Sherlock didn’t need him to clarify anything.

“What would the purpose be of asking, if I wasn’t intending to comply with your answer?” He simply stated.

“No evasions, Sherlock, please! Answer me simply. Did you mean it?” John asked again, staring at him intensely, feeling this to be the most pivotal moment in their precarious relationship. Sherlocks eyes remained steadily focused on his own as he answered.

“Yes, John. I meant it.”

 

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, I know it's not Friday. I am so sorry. I'm having trouble setting up the hotspot from my phone at home, so I'm currently sitting at Barnes and Noble on my iPad in order to upload chapters. I'm not sure if I'll be able to upload every Monday and Friday as I had originally planned, but I WILL upload at least once a week, even if I have to drag my giant iMac out of the house to do it. I apologize again for the delay. Hope to see you soon. Enjoy!

Chapter Five

 

Even after the appropriate amount of consideration he devoted to this decision, Sherlock was still shocked to find himself acting on it. He was less shocked to see John’s response. His flatmate, his friend, his companion, stood before him, red faced, pupils dilated, pulse elevated, eyes watching his own eyes intensely, looking for something. He was confused, which was ridiculous as Sherlock thought he was being very clear with his words.

He was also incredibly nervous, and thinking intently on something that Sherlock was frustratingly ignorant of. He was prepared to give John time to contemplate his proposal, but honestly, how much time did he need? It had been - his eyes flickered to the clock on the wall behind John - a whole two minutes and thirteen seconds. Again he marveled at how strange it must be, for the average human brain. These poor people, all around him, unable to see, maddeningly incompetent and - wait, stop. Concentrate. John.

“John-”  
“Do you even know what you’re suggesting, Sherlock?” He asked, finally asking the question that had obviously been bothering him the most. A question that, frankly, Sherlock found rather tedious.  
“Really John, I admit that I am inexperienced in this area but I’m not a child.”  
“Well have you ever… I mean… Have you been… intimate with anyone before?” He stumbled over his words, a renewed flush of color darkening his skin. Sherlock blinked at him once, twice.

No, he had not. But he certainly knew the mechanics of how sex worked, he knew the science. How difficult could it be, to apply his knowledge to action. John was sure to be experienced, so he shouldn’t need Sherlock to guide him. But wait, no, that’s not why John was asking. His friend looked at him expectantly, watching as Sherlock took a turn to think it over.  
“What do you think this entails, exactly?” John asked, trying a different tactic. That was an easier question.  
“Simple. Our relationship would remain how it is now, we would work together, live together, with the exception of how your sexual needs are dealt with. In that matter, you will refer to me instead of these random unfailingly disappointing girlfriends you adopt.”

John stared at him as he spoke, stirrings of anger flickering in his eyes.  
“So you want things to stay exactly how they are now, except that we have sex a couple of nights a week?” He asked, something in his tone gave Sherlock the impression that he did not find that appealing. Careful not to upset or offend him, though he had no idea why John would be offended, really, he should be flattered, Sherlock chose his next words with care.  
“If a few nights a week is what you want, then it can surely be arranged. I am open to any suggestion, anything to make this an acceptable option for you.”  
“What-” John started but stopped, shaking his head at whatever thought had not succeeded in escaping his mouth, and started again. “Why me?”

Sherlock began to speak, but John narrowed his eyes, his pupils contracting as he focused, his throat convulsing as he swallowed. The answer to this question was important, it’s meaning exceeded that of any he had asked so far. Sherlock decided to take a moment to ponder his answer, if not for the need to actually think of it, and more for the need for John to see him thinking of it.

Why John? Why John, indeed. There were plenty of other people in the world who could assist him in the way that John did, perhaps even better than John did, but Sherlock found himself averse to the idea of replacing him. Even if he had to go out of his way to offer assisting him with his need for intimacy, which the more he thought about it, was starting to sound less and less distasteful. Perhaps it even sounded… compelling. The idea of getting the chance to explore John more fully, to familiarizing himself with not only his preferences in tea and telly, but his preferences in touch and- wait. Stop. Back to current, clothed John.

Why John? Perhaps it had something to do with the way John was looking at him, and the way it made his chest tighten, and his heart pump a little harder. He could feel his own pulse thread rapidly, a normal response to being put under pressure. Perhaps it had something to do with the way John spoke to him, not with contempt or distaste, but with patience and understanding, and even, at times, a hint of reverence. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he never ceased to fascinate Sherlock, and how he was utterly predictable, except when he wasn’t.

Why, indeed, was John the only person on the planet that he could stand to have in his company for longer than three minutes. Why was John the only person who Sherlock didn’t want to strangle everytime he opened his mouth. Why was John the only person on the planet to cause Sherlock’s pupils to dilate, for his pulse to quicken, for the desire to inspect every line of his face, every tiny scar on his hands, and every blemish that he had yet to see? The desire to touch his face, to feel the barest amount of stubble along his jaw… wait. That. That urge there, had never happened before. Where did that come from?

For the first time since he had even thought to offer his solution to their problem, to Sherlocks problem with John and his distractions, the idea of fulfilling John’s sexual needs was… appealing. What an unexpected revelation.

“Sherlock?” John asked, worry coloring his voice, leaving a tangible taste of unease in the air between them.  
“Yes, John. Why you? I’ll tell you why. Because I tire of watching you walk out of this flat to meet with other people, for dates in particular. Because the thought of you giving your undivided attention to someone else irritates me to no end. Because I hate asking you a question only to find that you are not there. Because you’re the only person on the planet that doesn’t make me want to gauge my own eyes out with a toothpick. And because, my dear Dr. Watson, I simply and suddenly take immense joy in entertaining the idea of being the only one to satisfy your desires for companionship. _All of them_.” Sherlock finished, narrowing his eyes at his flatmate, who was wide eyed and stunned into a brief silence. “Does that adequately answer your question? If it does, I would very much like an answer to mine.”

“Yes.” John finally whispered.  
“Yes I have answered your question to your satisfaction, or yes to mine?”  
“Yes to yours.” He answered his voice still breathy as he stared at Sherlock.  
“Brilliant. When would you like to start?” Sherlock inquired, smothering the hum of satisfaction that wanted to rise up in his throat.  
“Uh, Sherlock, that’s not exactly how it works.” John replied, calming as he ran a hand over the back of his neck. Sherlock frowned.  
“Please do elaborate.”  
“Well first of all, we don’t map out specific times for this kind of thing, it happens naturally. You know, when the mood strikes us.” He said, looking at Sherlock now with an expression he had seen many times before, one of a parent trying to explain something to a child, with the smallest trace of amusement. Sherlock ignored the condescending look, preferring to focus on his words instead.  
“I’m not sure what you mean, when the mood strikes us? You’re not in the mood now?” He inquired. John sighed and let out one short, tired laugh.

“Sherlock, for as bloody brilliant you are, you are really amazingly ignorant.” John said, smiling as he turned to the now cold tea on the counter.  
“So I’ve been informed.” Sherlock stated blandly.  
“When you initiate intimacy with someone, you do it because you want to. Because your body has the urge to touch and to be touched. Not because it’s convenient. Do you understand what I mean? Have you ever felt that… need?” John asked, pointedly not looking at him as he put another kettle on.

“No one has ever touched me in that way John.” Sherlock said, his voice unemotional to a fault. He watched as John paused, eyes remaining on the kettle. Something in his sentence had triggered something, but what?  
“No one? Ever?” He asked, too calm. There was much more depth to that question than he let on.  
“No, John. I have never had the need for such contact.”

John let his head fall back, looking up at the ceiling as he expelled a heavy breath. He closed his eyes, his lips moving minutely… counting. Counting back from ten. John did this regularly when speaking to Sherlock, usually when Sherlock surprised or angered him. He didn't look angry. So surprised, then.

“Sherlock, I’m going to try something here. You’ll have to work with me, communicate and let me know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. If you don’t communicate with me properly, it won’t work. Do you understand?” John asked, looking up at him.  
“Of course I understand.” Sherlock replied, with only the barest annoyance.

John turned away from the kettle, locking his eyes on Sherlocks with a look that suggested he was waiting for Sherlock to flee. He stood his ground as John took a slow step closer, and watched as he brought his hands up to either side of Sherlocks face, holding him steady.  
“We’ll start with this, and see how it works.” He mumbled, pulling Sherlock’s face gently, hinting at what he wanted. Sherlock complied, lowering down the few inches that would bring their lips close enough to touch.

John’s pulse in his neck was beating like a hummingbird's wings, but his hands, his doctor’s hands, were sure and steady. He didn’t close his eyes, but lowered his gaze to Sherlock’s mouth so that Sherlock could see every individual sandy colored lash protruding from his eyelids. He brought his hands up, placing them on John’s firm forearms to steady them both, and instinctively closed his eyes as John’s lips touched his own.

Soft, so soft was the skin of his lips. They pressed against his own with a gentle force, testing his reaction. The kiss wasn’t still, but it was slow. John pulled back only a fraction, and kissed him again, tilting his head to one side, their mouths meeting at a different angle. Sherlock tried to mimic the movement of his lips, going through all the kisses he had seen in his head. There was that one time a few months ago that he had unintentionally intruded upon Molly and Anderson in a heated moment, their arms around each other as their mouths ate each’s almost violently. Sherlock mentally shook his head. No, that wasn’t right. There was another time when-

“Sherlock, you’re overthinking it. Stop trying to analyze it. Go with what you _feel_.” John whispered against his lips. Right, John was right. Sherlock took a deep breath, letting himself focus on John. Their lips met again, this time with the tiniest amount of practice. Sherlock moved his lips against John’s slowly, his hands sliding up his forearms to his shoulders, gripping carefully on the side that had been injured.

John’s hands slid down to the back of his neck, one traveled up slowly, fingers raking against Sherlock's’ scalp, and twisting into his hair. _That_ … that felt _good_. He gasped, and upon opening his mouth he felt John’s tongue slip wetly over his lower lip and against his own, just for a second, before retreating back into John’s mouth. He was suddenly breathing more heavily, his heart beating more quickly in his chest. His body was becoming excited in a way that it never had before.

Whatever reaction he had expected from John, it most definitely wasn’t the one he received. To his utter dismay, his friend pulled away, disentangling himself from Sherlock's arms to look up at his face. For once, Sherlock wasn’t sure what he saw there.  
“I need to know what you’re feeling, Sherlock.” He said, his voice wavering so subtly that no one else would have noticed. At his question, Sherlock took a quick assessment of himself.

The tiny nerves in his mouth were on fire, sending signals upward, into his brain, which in turn sent off reactions in the rest of his body. His salivary glands were in overdrive, his heart was pumping blood downward, warming low in his abdomen. With the extra blood rushing through his body, his skin felt hot and flushed. The touch of their lips had raised his brain’s production of dopamine, norepinephrine, and phenylethylamine, colliding with his brains pleasure receptors and giving him the feeling of exhilaration and the need to inch his mouth back towards John’s for more. The science of it, well, that was elementary.

The emotion in him was an entirely different matter. The feeling of possessiveness that overcame him at the thought of anyone else touching their lips to John’s in this way, surprised him almost as much as the knowledge that he had enjoyed what they had just shared, much more than he had expected. He wanted to kiss him again, he wanted to probe deeper, to see how much more this newfound pleasure could initiate. He wanted John to cease looking at him so calmly.

Instead of voicing his answer, he closed the short distance between them and gripped the back of John’s neck, pulling their lips together again. John groaned, a deep, masculine sound that forced more warmth coursing through him. Sherlock, driven by some need to pull John closer, ran a hand up his arm and over his shoulder, with every intent of wrapping it around him in order to achieve his desire when John winced, abruptly bringing Sherlock back into perspective.

“I believe that is enough experimenting for now.” Sherlock said, releasing John and tugging at the lapels of his jacket in order to gain some clarity. John looked up at him, his eyes wide and unsure. “Please do not make up some nonsense in your over suspicious head that I am not enjoying the experience John, that is not the case. I worry about damaging your shoulder, as I have already irritated the injury once tonight.” Sherlock informed him, glancing down at his arm, having already noticed the subtle way he held it out, away from his body.  
“Sherlock, my shoulder is fine.” He insisted, frowning. Sherlock could see it forming, some emotion in John’s face that increased in relation to the inches between them. As Sherlock took a step away from him, the look grew more pronounced, John’s eyes following him seemingly without his consent.

“So is that it, then?” John asked as Sherlock stepped towards the fridge.  
“For tonight, yes.” He answered, pulling a cold pack out of the freezer. He watched as John’s brow furrowed, some errant thought afflicting him. He pulled a hand up to his shoulder again, massaging it without being aware of the action. He did this often.

“Right. I’m off to bed then.” He said, dropping his hand and moving to walk passed Sherlock and towards the stairs.  
“A moment, please John.” Sherlock asked, absentmindedly punching buttons on the microwave before turning to look at his flatmate. John turned, an expectant, almost hopeful expression on his face.  
“A compress for your shoulder.” Sherlock said, gesturing towards the microwave. The hopefulness in John’s eye deflated like a punctured balloon. “Was there something else you wanted?” He added, studying John’s face as he waited for an answer.

There, a small flinch, his eyes glanced down for only a fraction of a second before snapping back up, blankness seeping into them in an attempt to hide whatever he was feeling.  
“John,” Sherlock started, turning the the microwave as it beeped to signify it’s readiness, “The way I see it, you have precisely two choices. You can tell me what it is you are thinking, if we don’t communicate properly, it won’t work,” He added in between, smiling to himself as he copied John’s own words, “Or we can become very friendly with my riding crop. I will be happy to accept either option, so I’ll leave it up to you.” He finished, holding out the hot compress.

John’s skin turned a lovely shade of red, only widening Sherlocks smile. He saw his mouth form the silent words “riding crop”, almost unintentionally before he gave himself a small shake and answered.  
“I wasn’t sure if you intended on us… sleeping together.” He finally said, his face even _more_ red than before. That was interesting, after all that they had discussed tonight, he was feeling the most vulnerable admitting this small thing. It must be important to him.  
“Would you like to?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes as he watched him closely. John took in his expression and shutdown, removing himself from the position he had put himself in.  
“No, I mean, it’s fine. Really. It’s all fine. Thank you for the compress.” He said, plastering a smile on his face as he took the compress from Sherlock’s outstretched hand. Once again, he made to walk passed Sherlock and towards the stairs.

“John.” Sherlock called out as his foot touched the first step. He turned, his eyes controlled and showing nothing. “I would be very much inclined for you to spend tonight in my room, with me. If wouldn’t mind.” John’s eyes widened, briefly showing his pleasure at Sherlocks words before he cleared his throat in an attempt to hide it.  
“Yes, yes of course.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lugged my beautiful monstrosity over to a friends house so that I could leech their internet for a few hours, so here is a chapter update. Enjoy, and please review!
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for spelling Lestrade's name wrong about two hundred and seventy nine times. I always forget how to spell it. I also apologize for not being British, and using American words where there should be British ones. Please bear with me.

Chapter Six

 

The quiet hum of an air vent filled the near silence of the room, which was dark, but getting brighter as John’s eyes adjusted to the barest amount of moonlight filtering in through the window. It was early morning, just after three by the bedside clock. Sherlock’s still body lay next to him, his naked chest pale and infuriatingly perfect, his face slack and more at ease than John had ever seen him before. The sight was mesmerizing.

John had come awake slowly at first, until he realized where he was and he remembered how he had gotten there. The memory rushed through him, leaving a warm feeling in it’s wake. Sherlock, deciphering his every move and expression, no matter how miniscule, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling at all times, except for when he was blatantly oblivious.

He had smiled, well more of a satisfied smirk really, when John said yes. Nothing would have pleased him more, honestly. Not in that moment. He was still reeling, the recent change in their relationship was so drastic and unexpected, that he still didn’t quite know how to handle it. What were they? Dating? Just casual? There were so many things that they had yet to discuss, but he didn’t want to think about it then, or even now. He was just happy to be where he was.

He smiled to himself at the memory of only hours ago, their small and humorous row about how exactly they would sleep. Sherlock had come back from the loo in one of his many sets of pinstriped grey silk pajamas which of course matched his silk sheets. John had hesitated, his gaze roaming over Sherlock’s attire, which hadn’t escaped his notice.  
“Is there a problem?” Sherlock inquired, raising an eyebrow.  
“Well no. It’s just that, not all of us have fancy silk pajamas to sleep in. Some of us have to make do with more basic garments.” John hedged, trying to be delicate.  
“Ah, that’s right, you sleep in the nude.” Sherlock noted thoughtfully.  
“I do not sleep in the nude, Sherlock. I sleep in my underwear.” He defended, feeling himself going pink about the ears.  
“Well I suppose you can borrow some of mine.” Sherlock offered, walking towards his closet, his bare feet padding silently on the hard floor.  
“I can’t sleep in one of those stuffy shirts Sherlock.” John grouched, frowning.  
“Just the pants then. I’ll even compromise with you. I’ll only wear the pants as well. Is that acceptable?” Sherlock asked, busying himself with selecting the appropriate clothes. John gaped at the back of his head, preoccupied the the thought that he had never seen his flatmate unclothed, even above the waist.  
“John?” Snapping back to attention, he looked up to see Sherlock holding a pair of folded blue silk pajama bottoms. He nodded woolenly, taking the pants and walking into the loo.

When he walked back into the bedroom, feeling slightly self conscious at his state of dress, he had to make a great effort for his face not to betray the depth of what he was feeling. Sherlock was standing next to the bed, pulling back the blanket and top sheet in preparation for them. The top half of his body was bare, and paler than John had expected, as though his skin had never seen the sun. He was so impossibly long and lean, not an ounce of fat, but not very muscled either. John made a mental note to encourage him to eat more.

As he turned, he watched those sharp blue eyes take him in in turn, assessing him on an entirely different level. His gaze lingered over the knotted scar on his shoulder. John itched to bring his hand to it, to cover it. Sherlock noticed the twitch, however slight. His eyes snapped back up to John’s softening into a look that John had never seen before.

“I must sleep on the right side, so you take the left.” He said, gesturing the other other side of the bed without taking his eyes off of John. John nodded, swallowing thickly as he walked around to the proper side and pulled the covers down, sliding his legs under them. Sherlock switched off the light, bathing them in darkness before John felt the bed dip next to him.

It was a small bed, not meant for two fully grown men. They had to lay close together, the lines of their bodies touching. Sherlocks bare skin was cold, but strangely, it only made him feel warmer. He rolled, turning to face Sherlock as he slipped one arm under his pillow, the position that he usually slept in. Sherlock remained flat on his back, leaving his profile bare to John’s scrutiny. His strong nose and brow, his thick lips, too thick for a man, parted slightly as he exhaled. His hair had fallen back away from his face, leaving him more open. As though he could feel John’s inspection, he spoke, his voice so low, sending little waves of warmth deep into him.  
“What are you thinking?”  
“I was just… looking at you. Not really thinking anything.” He answered, grateful of the dark when he felt his face redden.  
“Do you like what you see?” He asked, his voice sardonic as John watched his mouth turn up in self satisfied smirk. It was an expression that John knew well.  
“Go to sleep Sherlock.” John ordered, embarrassment coloring his tone. Sherlock laughed, a throaty sound that left his stomach doing flips.  
“Good night John.”

It hadn’t been long after that they’d fallen asleep, though how he had managed to sleep, he hadn't the foggiest. Now it was three am and John was awake, and Sherlock was still sleeping. He was still in the same position as before, flat on his back with both hands resting on his sternum. The only change was the position of his head. His face was turned a few inches towards John, as though he had fallen asleep watching him out of the corner of his eye.

John reached out slowly, careful not to dislodge the blankets for fear of waking him, and placed his hand in the air just above Sherlock’s chiseled cheek. He debated for a moment, torn between not wanting to disturb him but wanting to touch him. The urge to touch him won out after a moment, and he set his hand oh so gently on the side of Sherlock’s face, cupping his cheek. His skin was smooth, cool to the touch and unmoving. John ran the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone delicately, enjoying the feel of being able to touch him without the pressure of those blue eyes upon him.

He enjoyed the touch for a few moments, and Sherlock never stirred. Eventually his arm became tired and he pulled away, dropping it back down to the small space of mattress between their chests. He watched him for a while, watched the rise and fall of his chest as he slept so soundly, before eventually falling back into sleep.

 

When he awoke again Sherlock was gone. He was alone in the bed, wrapped in silk sheets and the smell of his flatmate. He inhaled deeply, snuggling deeper into the soft warmth, enjoying the moment, before forcing himself to rise. He dipped into Sherlock's loo to relieve himself, then set out to find his flatmate. And his own toothbrush.

When he walked into the living area he stopped in his tracks as, not one, but three people turned to look at him. Sherlock, fully dressed and sharp as a tack, gave him the barest of smiles as their eyes met, before John turned to look at the two people standing across the room from him. Detective Lastrade looked at him with wide eyes, his mouth opening in surprise. The junior officer next to him couldn’t restrain his smirk, and it was then that John realized what they saw.

John, leaving Sherlock’s bedroom. Wearing Sherlock’s pajama bottoms, and no shirt. Lovely.

“Dr. Watson, good morning.” Detective Lastrade said, trying to remain professional. John felt the heat rise up in his cheeks and opened his mouth to set the record straight, before he realized that he couldn't really deny anything. He closed his mouth and settled for a quick nod at the detective before marching grumpily across the room and up the stairs to his own to dress.

Bloody Sherlock! He could have at least popped his head in and warned John that they were there! Now everyone was going to know that he had slept in Sherlock’s bed. As if the rumors about them weren’t bad enough, now they practically had proof that the two of them were together!

John fumed as he practically ripped the silk pants down his legs, tossing them across the room angrily. He dressed with quick, jerking movements and brushed his teeth the same way, nearly making his gums bleed. He was still angry when he walked back down the stairs to the living room.

His anger dissipated when he heard Sherlock questioning the detective. There had been another murder.  
“And the only noticeable difference besides the identity of the victim and the location was the ribbon?” Sherlock asked as John joined them.  
“That was all that I could see, yes.” Detective Lestrade answered him. Sherlock scoffed, not bothering to disguise his arrogance.  
“That would be all that you could see, wouldn't’ it? We’ll come. We’ll follow behind and be with you shortly.” He said, an obvious dismissal. Detective Lestrade glanced over at John to give him a quick smile before he and his officer ducked out of the room. It wasn’t until they heard the door slam shut that Sherlock expelled his breath.

“This is fantastic! Another body John! And a different message this time!” He crowed, taking John’s face in his hands and touching their foreheads together in his excitement. It was when they were still touching that he suddenly still, as if only just realizing their proximity. John could feel Sherlock’s breath on his lips.

“John.” He said, his voice much lower and much more controlled.  
“Yes Sherlock?” John tried to say, but his voice came out hushed, a near whisper.  
“I find myself wanting to kiss you again. But I’m not going to. There is work to be done and we must go. But we will continue this later, is that acceptable?” He asked, as if asking if they could meet up for tea later on. Swallowing, John could only nod. Sherlock’s hands tighten for the smallest second before releasing him and grabbing his coat from the wall.

 

John loved to watch Sherlock work. He really was magnificent. His eyes, flickering from one piece of the puzzle to another rapidly, captivated him. He could practically hear his mind working, could see the pieces clicking together. And he was helpless, along with the rest of the world, in that he could only stand by and be overcome by his brilliance.

He was crouched, a pair surgical gloves clinging to his long fingers as he picked at the ice blue silk ribbon knotted around the man’s neck. He was a large man, killed in the same way that the woman had been, lying naked on the ground in an alley just off of a busy street. Sherlock hadn’t spent much time on him or his surroundings, he seemed obsessed with the ribbon.

“Same type of material, same cut, wrapped the same way, but a different color…” He mumbled to himself as he rubbed the silk between two fingers. John looked away and around the alley out of habit, always wanting to be aware of his surroundings, and his eye caught a pair of others who were staring straight at him.

Two people from the crime scene unit, both covered from neck to toes in blue scrubs, were talking in low voices, with amused expressions as they watched John. He felt the muscles in his neck tighten as he pressed his lips together and sighed. No doubt what was going on there.

“I’ve seen all I need to see.” Sherlock said stiffly, standing and pulling off the gloves, flinging them into a nearby bin.  
“Do you have anything I can use?” Detective Lastrade asked, watching Sherlock with a frown.  
“No. John will call you when I do. Come John, I need to think.” He ordered, striding away briskly. John said a quick, more polite goodbye, before jogging to catch up.

“What do you think?” He asked as Sherlock hailed a cab.  
“Shut up. I need silence. Either be quiet or take the next cab.” He ordered as the vehicle pulled up to the curb in front of them. John sighed, but followed Sherlock into the cab.

He gave the cabbie instructions to bring them to a shop near Baker Street so they could grab a quick bite to eat, as there was nothing edible at the flat at the moment. Sherlock didn’t notice, he held his fingers to his temple, his lips moving occasionally, shaking his head at something only he could see.  
“First the purple, then the blue…”

He was still unaware when they arrived, snapping out of his self when John opened the cab door.  
“What is this? Why are we not at home?” He asked, his face souring when he saw the shop.  
“I know you don’t like to eat when you’re working on a case, but not all of us have the same reservations.” John said as he handed money to the cabbie. Sherlock sighed but followed John into the shop.

“Want a coffee while we’re here?” John asked, looking up at him. Sherlock gave him an intensely angry look, then looked away, narrowing his eyes towards the counter. John followed his gaze, noting the length of the line. He briefly thought of going somewhere else, but they were already there, no point in leaving as it would only take longer to get lunch somewhere else.

Nearly fifteen minutes and an extremely irritable Sherlock later, John was giving his order to the young man across the counter, hoping that he didn’t botch it from lack of attention to John and too much attention on Sherlock. He didn’t need Sherlock’s skills at deduction to figure _that_ look out.

Had it always bothered him when people looked at Sherlock that way, or had that only started recently? He seemed to recall being annoyed, but not jealous. Not to say he was jealous now, just… not happy with it.

Sherlock, probably trying to avoid the man’s gaze, either stared out the window or down at John. It was strange, standing the middle of a busy shop as they waited for John’s order, to have those intense eyes on him. John tried to ignore him, but he couldn’t help but fidgit. He nearly sagged in relief when his name was called, relieved to be out from under such frightening scrutiny.

When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock hung his scarf and coat on the wall as John took his carry out box to the kitchen table. He allowed himself to steal glances at Sherlock while he ate, as his flatmate was otherwise occupied and unaware of inspection.

He was wearing one of his best shirts, the dark blue one that fitted his slender torso like it had been made specifically for him, to emphasize his body’s natural perfection. He wore it unbuttoned at the throat, a small patch of pale skin peeking out rebelliously. The shirt twisted and pulled while he paced and turned, showing the lines of his body.

He ran his hands through his hair as he paced, going over the case in his head, mumbling unintelligibly occasionally. It was when Sherlock stopped at the back of John’s chair, placing his hands on the back of it and letting his head fall as he exhaled, that John suddenly understood.

“Sherlock,” He said, frowning as he went over it again in his head, checking his memory. Sherlock ignored him, lost in his own thoughts. “Sherlock, the ribbons…” John said, his voice trailing off. At this, Sherlock’s head snapped up, his full attention on John’s face.  
“Yes? What about them?” He quipped, cutting through John’s thoughts. John looked at him, wondering if he could be right, and if he was, how could Sherlock not have seen…  
“They’re the same colors as your shirt. The day before the first body, you wore that purple shirt, and then yesterday you were wearing that light blue one. Whoever is doing this… they’re doing it specifically for you.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I decided to visit my in-laws this morning! The fact that they have internet had nothing to do with it... and I only happened to have my computer in my car... so... Here is a chapter update! Enjoy. <3

Chapter Seven

 

“John… you utterly brilliant man!” Sherlock proclaimed, rising from his hunched position to look at his flatmate. John's eyes widened, his hands paused, his throat convulsed as he swallowed heavily.  
“I’m sorry?” He said, his voice two octaves higher than normal. Sherlock had to admit, he didn’t compliment him often, probably not as often as he should, but this reaction was unnecessary. Of course he was brilliant, how could he not know?

And how could Sherlock have missed this? Of course, _of course_ , his shirts! How could he not have seen! Even the brand of silk was the same, he had said as much himself. Only one shop within fifty miles sold that brand, a shop that Sherlock, and certainly the killer, was familiar with. The shop was the connection, bringing with it other threads of possibilities.

Who had seen him repeatedly over the last few days, who would know what color shirts he had been wearing? Where had he gone? He brought his hands to his temples and closed his eyes, running through his last few days in his mind. Flat, Lettie’s, flat, coffee shop, crime scene, flat, crime scene, coffee shop, flat. He never stayed for more than twenty seven minutes at each of these places, with the exception of his flat, where only John, Lestrade, that witless junior policeman, and Mrs. Hudson had seen him. Of course John wasn’t the killer, impossible. It wouldn’t be Lestrade, that wouldn’t make sense. Sherlock simply refused to believe that the junior policeman had done it, and he didn’t even consider Mrs. Hudson. So that left anyone who had seen him at Lettie’s, the crime scenes, or the coffee shop. Anyone on the street could have seen him at any of these places, and with John’s blog growing in popularity, he scowled at the thought, his face was becoming more and more recognizable.

But enough about that, focus on the people who had passed him on the street. First, two nights ago, at Lettie’s. He recreated the the situation in his mind easily, able to recall every detail. He sat across the street from the from the tiny pub, sitting on a bench instead of standing as people tending to pay more attention to someone standing in one place for any length of time than they did if they were sitting, and watched John and his, he grimaced, _date_ , as they _flirted_ and _drank_ and acted like- wait, stop. Back to the street.

It had been rather late in the evening, already dark with thick clouds that had threatened rain, and delivered later on that night. Sherlock had been dressed in his usual attire, with his long coat and scarf, with his coat buttoned to protect his body from the wet, cold air. The only way that any passerby could have possibly noticed the color of his shirt is if they had walked directly passed him, within a three to four feet radius. That eliminated all the people on the street except three.

Passerby number one, an older woman, widowed veterinarian, walking three tiny little dogs who stopped to sniff at Sherlock’s feet. He had been tempted to strike out with his foot at the little beasts as the woman had stopped directly in front of him, blocking his view to the window at Lettie’s. It had taken her precisely four and a half seconds to urge the little mongrels on and continue down the sidewalk, giving her plenty of time to inspect his collar. Sherlock ran his eyes over her body in his mind, noting her weathered hands with tiny scars and the knotted, misshapen scar at her wrist where a small dog, possibly cat but more likely a small dog, had bitten her. Her keys hung from her waist, jingling loudly with her every step. There had been a keychain hanging from the ring with the letters “Border’s Veterinary Hospital” printed on it’s face, along with a pair of paw prints.

Her clothes were covered in many types of animal hair, ranging from small short hairs of various colors to long wiry strands that could be found on shepherds and the like. Her blond and silver hair was knotted up hastily, redone over and over again as it kept falling down with her movements. The thick rope chain around her neck disappeared under her shirt, hanging tightly, weighed down by whatever rested just above her sternum. Could have been some kind of charm, but unlikely judging from the rigidness of the chain. Something heavy was hanging there, probably a man’s wedding ring. Sherlock removed his focus from her outer appearance and brought it up to her face, lined with years of laughter, with reddened over indentations on each side of the bridge of her nose, she wore glasses at work, probably farsighted as she was not wearing them now.

Her expression was normal, mundane, as she apologized briefly for the dogs, then pulled them away and down the sidewalk. Her eyes had never lingered on Sherlock’s face or collar, keeping to his lower extremities or on the dogs. There was no sign that she payed any special attention to him. The chances were extremely slim that she had anything to do with the murders. So on to the next one.

Passerby number two had been a man, likely in his late thirties judging from his receding hairline and slightly protruding stomach from too many pints. He hadn’t paused or even looked in Sherlock’s direction as he walked passed, his voice low as he spoke on his mobile. Sherlock noticed that his ring finger on his left hand had an indention, so he was either recently divorced or still married and currently having an affair. Sherlock guess the later, judging from the shady looks he kept throwing around him and the lowered voice, probably on the phone with his mistress as he walked passed, on his way to a rendezvous.

He had walked passed Sherlock as if he wasn’t there, too preoccupied with his own business to pay him much mind. He also didn’t fit the profile, as he was a large man and surely wouldn’t need to poison or drug his victims. It was highly unlikely that he was the killer.

That left only the third passerby, a young woman who fit all the physical requirements, slender and without the muscle required to attack two people, giving her the motivation to use some type of paralyzing substance. She was also well dressed and groomed, her makeup neat and effortless. She was carrying bags from three different stores nearby, and wearing a designer coat and matching heels, so she was accustomed to money. The diamond studs in her ears reinforced this idea, and as she turned to glance at Sherlock as she strode passed, she gave him a smile that hinted at some underlying thought. Wait, focus on that look, focus on her eyes. Her eyes, which ran over his face quickly for about one full second, then over the remainder of his body for another full second, without slowing her stride. She certainly had taken the appropriate amount of time to notice the color of his shirt with minimal effort.

Her pupils had dilated a fraction as she looked at him, her lips quirking up and pushing together to make them look swollen in a way that she must have thought men found attractive, though Sherlock thought they looked more inflated than sensuous. And then she was gone, striding away from him with an exaggerated sway of her hips that was certainly meant for him. Sherlock tossed away the memory of her backside, useless.

Though she was the most likely suspect of the three, she shared the same irritating factor that both other passersbys had, in that she meant absolutely nothing to Sherlock. He had never seen any of these people before, and they had no connection to him that would make him entertain the slightest possibility of them committing these crimes _for_ Sherlock.

John’s voice, though enjoyable to listen to, even more so of late, tried to break through his concentration.  
“Shut up John.” He voiced, not angrily, as he was working and didn’t want to be distracted. The words stopped, leaving him to consider the next possibilities.

Right, the coffee shop. Sherlock grimaced as his mind flew through the possibilities, such a crowded little bore of a shop, with it’s muddy water that would never constitute as coffee. Sherlock would never understand why John seemed to enjoy the place so much, even the food was not up to standard. It was entirely possible that- stop. Focus. Look for her, look for the killer.

Sherlock waved away all of the male faces in his mentally recreated coffee shop, choosing to focus solely on the women. No, she only arrived in london two hours ago. Couldn’t be her, she spent the last two day’s locked in a hotel with her new husband. Not that one, she was a lesbian and despised men, and most likely couldn’t be bothered to impress Sherlock for any reasons.

He continued to study them, all nine of them, but none of them had what he was looking for. Where was the look, surely one of them had looked at him, surely one of them was committing these crimes, practically screaming for Sherlock’s attention. Why couldn’t he find her! He pressed his fingers to his temples in frustration, determined that she was in the shop somewhere.

Definitely not that one, judging from the one side of conversation Sherlock could hear as she chatted on her mobile, her IQ was so low that she would have to dig for it. He groaned in frustration, tugging his hair from his scalp.  
“Sherlock?” John asked, his voice cutting through his thoughts. Sherlock turned to snap at him but paused upon seeing the look on his face.

John’s brows were drawn together in worry, his eyes flickering over Sherlock’s face as he stood there. There, in that look, the darting movement of his gaze as they ran over Sherlock’s person… It was there… there in that look…

And then the thought slammed into him like a slap to the face, taunting him for his stupidity, for not having seen it before. Those eyes, staring at him greedily, making him uncomfortable as he stood in that too crowded little shop.

Nearly jumping in excitement, Sherlock focused on John’s anxious face letting a grin deform his mouth.  
“John! We’re going out. I need one of your shirts.” He announced, striding passed John and towards the stairs to his flatmates room, unbuttoning his own shirt as he walked.  
“What? Why? Do you know who the murderer is?” He inquired, Sherlock could hear the clink of china as John hastily set his cup on the counter before bounding up the stairs after him.  
“I have a very possibly, and frankly quite probable, guess. I require your assistance in order to get the proof that I need to hand him over to Lestrade.” Sherlock said as he stepped into John’s room. He immediately went to John’s closet and started pulling shirts off the hangers, inspecting them individually, before tossing them onto the floor.

“Now, hang on Sherlock, you can’t just-”  
“The shirts John, the shirts are the key! I need the killer to see my shirt, but it can’t be my shirt, so it must be yours. No, not this one, not my style at all. No. No. No. How can you wear this?” He asked, holding the offending garment between two fingers. How could John stand it? It must have felt like wearing carpet.  
“Who is it? And why do you need one of my shirts?” John asked, standing in the doorway of his own closet as he watched Sherlock rummage through his clothes.

Sherlock ignored his first question as he finally found a suitable shirt. He pulled it away from the others, brushing passed John as he walked back into the bedroom and to the bed. Sherlock had seen John in this shirt before, and remembered the way it was slightly too long in the arm, making it the most preferable choice for Sherlock. He laid the shirt on John’s bed and continued unbuttoning his own.

“Sherlock, ah, why- what are you doing?” John asked, breathing out heavily through his nose as Sherlock turned to look at him, fingers still on his buttons. He became suddenly acutely aware of the way John’s pupils dilated, the way his hand fluttered nervously at his collar as his eyes followed Sherlock’s fingers as they made swift work of the buttons. He let his fingers slow, not quite so concentrated on his buttons anymore.  
“John,” Sherlock drawled, aware of how John’s throat contracted heavily as he said his name.  
“Yes, Sherlock?” He answered, shifting his weight and holding himself up straighter as Sherlock took a step towards him. He had to suppress a smile at the familiar habit, narrowing his eyes as John glanced down at his hands.  
“Do you recall earlier when I said that I wanted to kiss you, but that it would have to wait because there was work to be done?” Sherlock asked lightly, standing directly in front of him then as he finished off the last button, leaving his silk shirt hanging open.  
“Yes, I do recall.” He answered, holding his chin up in a way meant to show that he was unafraid and resilient. How charming.

With their bodies only inches apart, Sherlock could clearly see the lines in John’s face. How curious it was, how often he forgot that John wasn’t exactly a young man. Not to say he was decrepit, for he was obviously in excellent shape and health, but he was not as young as he presented himself to be. Sherlock knew he didn’t do this consciously, or to fool people into thinking that he was younger than he actually was, just that he was a younger man at heart.

At heart. John’s heart. Which was beating hard and furious, so much so that Sherlock could see his chest thundering with it’s effort as he breathed, he could count it’s beats, _one two, one two, one two_ , fast and strong. Definitely the heart of a younger man.

Sherlock could also see his pulse threading in his neck, the skin stretching with every beat, tantalizing him as they stood so close. John’s eyes were wide and dark, lingering on his lips as he seemed to teeter on the edge of a precipice, on the one hand, to walk away from Sherlock and ignore the tension that had risen up so quickly, and on the other, to close those inches and pressed their lips together.

Sherlock found himself so singularly focused, now unable to take his eyes from John’s face, from the tanned skin over his cheeks, from his wide eyes, his parted lips. And even as only two seconds had passed since John had answered him and Sherlock had looked at him to take all of this in, he realized how utterly preposterous his relationship with John was becoming.

If it got anymore out of hand, one might begin to think that he was developing _feelings_ for his flatmate.

When had his offer, the offer he had made out of a practical need to keep John and his relationships from distracting him, become an arrangement that he was genuinely interested in, something that he _wanted?_

And God, why did he want to kiss John so badly?

Sherlock was barely able to finish the thought, barely able to register the resolve suddenly forming in John’s face, before his lips were on him. Those lips that were so soft, moving against his own with fierce need, as though John was trying desperately to tell him something. Sherlock, even with his self proclaimed brilliance, was able to admit that this, _this_ was out of his depth. He could go through exactly how many traffic stops there were in the city of London, or correctly solve an equation for special relativity within fifteen seconds, even solve the most mysterious and impossible murders, but the current emotional state of his flatmate completely eluded him.

But the way that John pressed his body into Sherlock’s and ran his hand from his neck up to the back of his head to twist his strong fingers into Sherlock’s hair, gave him the strangest sensation. He didn’t care that he didn’t understand. He let John push him back a step as he tugged as Sherlock’s hair, earning guttural groan to escape his mouth. He wasn’t even aware he could make such a sound.

John took the opportunity to slide his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth once again, lingering longer this time, allowing Sherlock to become acquainted with the feel of the alien digit running along his own tongue. He was once again hyper aware of the the millions of tiny nerves in his mouth igniting, sending signals of pleasure to his brain and from his brain to the rest of his body. He could feel the affect, almost as if he was intoxicated. His mind was working more slowly than usual, and he found it increasingly difficult to focus on anything except John’s body against his own. The loss of power over his body frightened him, but he also couldn’t find the spare room in his brain to worry about it at that moment.

John’s tongue darted into his mouth again and Sherlock vaguely noticed how the back of his knees were pressed against the bed. When had he taken those steps? His breath hitched when the hand that was not tugging at his hand slid down his throat and onto his chest. That hand, so warm, touching him in a way that he had never been touched, leaving his nerves on fire in it’s wake.

The feel of that hand as it fluttered over his chest and sternum, dancing over his ribs, touching each one individually as it explored him, sent heat spiraling down into his pelvis. He could feel the blood rushing down, feel the erection growing swiftly.

Sherlock had had erections before, he would have to have been dysfunctional to have not, but usually they came about without need or want and Sherlock either ignored them or dealt with them quickly out of pure logical desire to be rid of it. They had never felt like this. They had never felt so hot, leaving him so desperate to be touched. As John’s hand traveled lower, he grew more curious as to what it would be like to have John touch him, to have John stroke him to an orgasm. The thought intrigued him.

His breath hitched again, unbidden, betraying him as those warm fingers brushed against the line of his trousers. John pulled away at the sound, just far enough to study Sherlock’s face intently. His skin was flushed, pupils dilated so wide that the blue of his irises were nearly invisible, his lips swollen from the extra blood coursing through his body. He looked positively marvelous.

Sherlock’s lower extremities throbbed at the sight of him. He brought a hand down and pressed a palm to his erection, attempting to simultaneously to control and soothe himself. John’s eyes followed his hand widening as he realized what Sherlock’s touch meant. Sherlock could almost see the blood flowing down, leaving his cheeks not as red as before. So he found the site of Sherlock’s erection arousing did he? Interesting.

“Sherlock…” He whispered, the sound of his name like a reverent prayer on his lips. The exposed worship in John’s voice sent a thrill through him, nothing gave him pleasure like praise coming from that voice.  
“Yes John?” He asked, his voice rough with the effort it took to speak.  
“There are things that we need to discuss if we’re really going to do this. Delicate matters and things that need to be worked out before we can continue…” He trailed off, his eyes running over Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock let his gaze wander from the tanned skin of his face, passed the line on his neck where his flesh started to pale from lack of sun exposure. Three of his buttons were undone, leaving a small patch of bared skin. Sherlock knew from their previous night together that John’s chest had the barest dusting of sandy colored hair, but it was hidden from him by the damned shirt. The shirt. The shirts!

He let out a strangled groan, releasing John and running his own hands through his hair as his mind once again flooded with the work, successfully smothering all thoughts of intimacy with John for the moment. The case, the shirts. He needed to dress. He needed to leave.

“Sherlock?” John inquired, frowning up at him as he took a step back. Sherlock locked his gaze on him, knowing that he could not postpone the work to complete what they had started. He needed to finish the work first.  
“Yes, John. Would you like to have dinner with me?”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the in-laws again (Happy Father's Day!) sneaking in an upload real quick. My husband and I are starting the long, arduous process of buying our first home. It'll take a while yet, but as soon as we are moved in and settled I'll have internet again. Oh, oh the joy! Wish us luck, and as ever, happy reading!

Chapter Eight

 

John was quite used to Sherlock’s eccentric behavior, but this was becoming ridiculous. Not only had he ceased their heated embrace at the flat seemingly without reason, ignored John’s questions about the identity of the murderer during the cab ride, but now that they had stopped to have dinner, he found that Sherlock had brought him to his least favorite coffee shop of all places?

Sherlock hated the little shop,why would he choose this place? Baffled, John kept his eyes on his flatmate as they entered, watching those sharp blue eyes look around casually. Something was going on, something to do with the case. He watched Sherlock more closely, unable to decipher that look, unable to figure out who or what was here that he was after. He huffed, frustrated. Sherlock heard the soft noise and looked down at him.

“I hope you’re hungry.” He said, grinning. John scowled.  
“Would you like to tell me what we’re doing here?” He asked, not bothering to mention that he had only eaten an hour ago.  
“No.” Sherlock answered simply, looking away from John and staring absently at the crowd. John sighed and resigned to wait it out.

He decided to have a look around as they waited in line, to test his own eyes and see if he could spot whatever it was that Sherlock was looking for. It was probably useless, but he had to pass the time one way or another. He shifted his weight and sighed, looking around while trying not to appear too terribly interested. The shop was moderately crowded, but no one of interest caught his eye. He did notice that young man behind the counter, staring eagerly at Sherlock again in a way that was most definitely annoying.

Sherlock carefully kept a no-touching distance between them. He seemed to stand as close as he could without touching John, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. On the one hand, he was afraid that Sherlock would never want to be seen being too close in public, which made no sense as he never tried to deny the accusations about their relationship before. On the other hand, maybe he was simply uninterested in closing the distance because he felt no need to touch John. The only other reason he could think of was to spare John embarrassment from some kind of public display of affection that Sherlock thought would make him uncomfortable. Unlikely. Sherlock didn’t have the capacity for such consideration.

As ever, Sherlock was always one to surprise him. When they reached the counter, he spoke before John had the chance, ordering two coffees. Upon completing his order, Sherlock swiftly, as though the motion was regularly practiced, slid his arm around John’s shoulder and brought his mouth down to John’s ear.  
“Did you want anything else?” He asked, his deep voice sounding very much like he had just been roused from bed. John felt the heat rush up into his face upon the display, wondering what the bloody hell had come over Sherlock, but at the same time unable to move away or discourage him. It didn’t take him long to figure out why.

The young man behind the counter watched, wide eyed and disbelieving as Sherlock staked his very obvious claim. John wasn’t sure whether to be furious for his manipulations, or flattered. He decided to act on neither emotion, and instead simply shook his head in answer to Sherlock question.

Sherlock nodded, letting his nose brush against John’s ear for only a second before releasing him from his hold with the barest of smiles before repeating their order to the man. John waited awkwardly while their order was filled, watching the red faced young man with a sharp eye, lest he spit in his cup.

Once they were safely out of the shop, he rounded on Sherlock with every intention of berating him only to see him pulling out his mobile. He punched in a number from memory as they strode down the sidewalk. John sipped his coffee as he watched Sherlock bring the phone to his ear, and frowned when he dropped his untouched coffee into a trash bin without breaking stride.

“Lestrade. Send a patrolman to the coffee shop on the east end of Baker Street. Our killer’s name is Trevor, and his shift will be over soon. He’ll be angry when he leaves the shop, so he’ll try to murder again tonight. Keep an eye on him and call me in the morning when you have him in lockup.” Sherlock ordered so proficiently before promptly ending the call without so much as a ‘goodbye’.  
“Coffee shop guy? _Coffee shop guy_ is the murderer?” John asked, astounded as they walked back towards their flat.  
“Of course John, do keep up. I’ve only visited four different locations within the last week. Lettie’s, the crime scenes, our flat, and the coffee shops.”  
“So you _did_ follow me the other night-”  
“First of all, Lettie’s, only three people passed by me on the street who would have been close enough to see my shirt collar clearly, and none of them fit the profile. The crime scenes were more simple, surrounded by policemen and even then, not many of them came close enough to get a clear look at my shirt collar. Possible that the killer was on the police force, but not probable. I skipped over that possibility in favor of the next two options. The flat, for obvious reasons, was not a likely choice for our killer to have seen me. The coffee shop was next, and I will admit that it took me a moment to figure it out. You were the one who gave me the idea-”  
“Me? How?”  
“-and after that it was simply a matter of luring him out and tempting him to kill again, to try to steal my attention away from my new lover.” Sherlock finished, unaffected as John nearly spat coffee out of his mouth upon hearing the word.

He coughed for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. After he recovered, he snuck a glance over at his companion. Sherlock’s face was schooled to a carefully constructed blank expression. It was clear to John that he was being deliberately taciturn.

It had occurred to him that him that now their case was over. The work, as Sherlock put it, was over. Which left him free of obligations and reason to stay focused without fear of distractions. Meaning… intimacy.

Would Sherlock initiate anything? Should John? Should he wait and judge Sherlock’s mood? Perhaps wait until they get the call from Lestrade, just to be safe? Probably. He would rather wait then try too early only to be rebuffed by his ever mercurial friend.

So John remained silent until they arrived back at 221 B Baker Street, breathing in the familiar smell of home as he sighed upon hanging up his coat inside the door. Sherlock wasted no time in removing his coat and scarf, taking the stairs two at a time in his rush to arrive at their second floor front door. It was still open when John reached the top stair, but his flatmate was no where to be seen.

Dark had fallen, leaving the old yellow lamps to be the dominant source of light in the wide sitting room. The streetlights could be seen out of the windows, along with the bustle of evening foot traffic on the sidewalk below. John sat at his computer with his coffee, putting the quiet to use as he prepared to type up the rough draft for a new blog about their latest case.

It was only seconds later that the violin started from somewhere else in their flat, it’s tempo fast and strong as it fed Sherlock’s agitation. Already? The case wasn’t even really over yet. John suppressed a groan and a smile as the noise grew closer. Sherlock entered from the hall, having removed his jacket but nothing else. His shoes were silent as he stepped slowly across the hardwood floor, his hair in disarray as he worshiped the instrument.

“Sherlock, would you like to play a little softer? Our neighbors are going to complain again.” John attempted, though he knew not why.  
“I decline.” Sherlock answered simply, confirming John’s expectations. He settled in a prepared to ignore the destructive music as he opened his browser.

He had barely managed two paragraphs when Sherlock promptly perched his bottom on the side of John’s desk and laid his upper body down the length of it with a flourish, knocking papers and an empty cup to the floor without care.  
“Sherlock really? Come on now-”  
“Bored, John! I’m bored!” He proclaimed, letting the violin rest across his stomach.  
“Yes well, fall onto the couch and scatter the cushions, kindly leave my desk out of your tantrums.” John grumbled, attempting to gather his fleeting thoughts and resume his typing.

He tried to ignore Sherlock, who was pouting glumly as he typed, but he couldn’t help but be aware of his thigh so close to the side of his computer. His trousers were stretched tight as his legs dangled off the edge of his desk from the knee. The fabric clung to his legs, leaving little to speculate on, as far as their shape. What a nice shape they appeared to be.

John closed his eyes, pulling a breath in through his nose and breathing it out through his mouth. That was exactly the direction his thoughts were not supposed to be going in. He had decided to wait, had he not? Wasn’t his fault that bloody Sherlock wanted to lay across his desk and distract him with that long lean graceful body of his- what. the. hell. John.

“Is there a problem?” Sherlock drawled, his smooth voice speculative as he spoke the question. John nearly flinched, opening his eyes to find those blue eyes trained on him. Which was exactly what he didn’t need.  
“Nope. No problems here. Just. Peachy.” He answered, unable to control his clipped tone. One didn’t need to be Sherlock bloody Holmes to deduce that there was indeed a problem.  
“Wrong. Why are you lying to me?” Sherlock asked, sitting up swiftly as he narrowed his eyes down at John in amusement.  
“I am not lying. I am just busy and you’re distracting me.” He responded, making an effort to keep his words gentle. Sherlock let out a bark of laughter.  
“I am distracting you? How appropriate.” He nearly murmured, those delighted eyes still trained on his face.

John pointedly ignored him as set his violin on the floor, propping it gently against the desk. He laid back once again, though this time his long body was propped up on his elbows, leaving his pectoral muscles taut under his straining shirt, which was definitely not distracting at all. Neither was the way those dark curls mused to the side of his face, looking deliciously messy and windswept from their walk.

Since when was he so damn attracted to Sherlock? A week ago their relationship was pleasantly platonic, no matter what everyone else says, and now he couldn’t sit in the same room as the man without wanting to run his tongue across his stomach. John groaned and leaned back in his chair and let his head fall back as he closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

“You see John, this is the problem with intimate relationships. They’re distracting.” Sherlock murmured, his voice much closer than before. John’s eyes shot open, their gaze locking. Sherlock had slid off the desk silently and moved around to lean against it almost directly in front of him, his hip nearly brushing against the side of John’s laptop. How did he move so quietly? And why was he looking down at John with that nearly demented smirk on his face?

John opened his mouth to answer, but was unsure of how to respond. Sherlock’s thigh was pressing against the side of his chair and it was distracting. He watched, helpless as Sherlock slowly pushed the screen to his laptop down until the computer closed with an audible _click._  
“Have I ever informed you that I find your physical and verbal responses fascinating? For example, your pupils have dilated so widely that I can no longer see your irises. Your face displays a lovely shade of pink before all your blood rushes down to the more… _needed_ extremities. You open your mouth, but you struggle for words as you are so flustered. It’s quite flattering.” Sherlock mused, bringing a hand to brush his fingers against John’s slack mouth. He immediately closed it.

“I-you-you just surprised me, that’s all.” He defended, standing swiftly so that he no longer had to look up at Sherlock. With Sherlock leaning against the desk, they were eye to eye. In a moment of boldness, he pushed those long legs apart, just far enough for him to stand between them. He was not flustered, damn it. If either of them should have been flustered, it was Sherlock.

Those heavily lidded eyes just watched him, a small smile gracing his perfect lips. His smile grew fractionally wider when John places his hands on Sherlock’s hips. He seemed calm, serene almost.  
“What’s gotten into you?” John asked, their faces close. Sherlock’s calm worried at him, it was abnormal.  
“I’m bored.” He replied simply, causing John to frown. This behavior couldn’t be farther from the way he usually dealt with his boredom.  
“Well yes but what happened to the violin? What happened to shooting the walls or conducting your ridiculous experiments, which reminds me Sherlock, is that smell ever going to come out of the-” His words were cut off when Sherlock shifted in front of him, resituating his legs around him and settling back down against the desk.  
“I’m _bored_ , John. _Distract me_.” He said again, bringing his face even closer. John could feel his breath on his lips.

_Distract me._


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have internet once again! Since I'm so close to the end of this story, I'll upload one chapter today and then the final chapter next weekend. I want to thank you all for the support throughout this, I can't tell you how much I've appreciate all the Kudos and Comments. Praise and constructive criticism are like food for aspiring writers. I would starve and waste away without you guys. Really. Thank you. Enjoy! <3

Chapter Nine

 

The visible response that his words drew out of John was simply enrapturing. Sherlock watched as he paused, his eyelids fluttering as he took a moment to double check what he had said. His lips, those oddly delectable lips, parted as he stuttered out a breath while his chest surged with the effort. Sherlock felt himself smile, incapable of masking his own pleased response. John’s grip tightened on him, those strong fingers digging into his hips as he attempted to steady and prepare himself.

With one sweep of his gaze, Sherlock took in his friends appearance. He had neglected to buy a new razor, there was the most miniscule amount of stubble on his chin. Though he was quick to care for others, John never exerted quite the same amount of care when it came to his own well being. He was kind, so kind and considerate. This quality, perhaps it was a flaw, was endearing at times. At other times it was merely an encumbrance.

He hadn’t showered this morning after his lie-in in Sherlock’s bed. The light scent of his own silk sheets still clung to his skin, particularly around his face and neck where he had buried his head in the sheet for a moment upon waking. The idea that he smelled of Sherlock’s bed sent a strange thrill through him, leaving a fluttering sensation deep in his abdomen. It was a primal feeling, one that he was agonizingly unfamiliar with.

Sherlock couldn’t help but see the vivid image of John in his bed, surrounded by near darkness and silk sheets as he slept peacefully. It had only taken a small amount of time for Sherlock to follow, sinking down into an unconscious state with an ease that he was never able to accomplish when he slept alone. Why was that? Why was he able to sleep easier when John was in his bed? There it was again, the feeling of partial fear, partial amazement. What was this, genuine sentiment? Was he developing an emotional attachment to John?

“Shut up.” John whispered, only seconds after Sherlock had made his demand. Had it been seconds? Or had it been longer?  
“Pardon?” Sherlock inquired, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back a fraction to study John’s face.  
“You were thinking. It’s annoying.” John breathed, hands sliding up slowly from his hips to his waist. Even through his shirt, Sherlock could feel their warmth. He couldn’t help but smile as John threw his own words back at him from so long ago. “No more thinking.” He added, and then closed the distance between them.

Sherlock brought a hand to John’s neck to steady himself as they kissed needily. Though their first attempt had been clumsy, this kiss was different, sure and demanding. John slid his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip, wordlessly requesting entrance. He granted quickly, reveling in the increasingly familiar feeling of John’s tongue in his mouth. So warm, this muscle as it assaulted his oral senses and wrecked havoc on his mental clarity. It briefly occurred to him that the tongue was the strongest muscle in the human body and he could just _imagine_ the feeling of it wrapping around the head of his cock. Said appendage gave an excited twitch at the thought, quickly becoming engorged as the flow of blood in his body was redirected.

He could feel John’s pulse as his hand rested against the side of his neck, pounding fast and steady. Quick fingers suddenly pulled at the front of his shirt, untucking it from his trousers with sharp tugs, and then John’s hand found purchase on his skin. Oh, the sensation! His body felt so alive, nearly quivering with strange anticipation. John gripped his hip with one hand as he pulled at Sherlock’s buttons with the other, slightly clumsy in the left handed attempt. Sherlock could feel the tremor in those usually steady hands, evidence of his own excitement.

He released his hold on John’s neck, running his hand up into his sandy hair only to become frustrated when he found that John’s hair was too short to get a hold. Forgoing the attempt, he brought his hand around to his jaw and gripped it heavily. He felt the muscles flex as John moved his mouth, kissing him greedily. His other hand seemed to have a mind of it’s own, determined to make up for his lack of previous exploration as it moved down John’s arm and to his stomach. Feeling brave and inquisitive, he pushed up John’s sweater and dug two fingers underneath the line of his jeans, tugging at them with silent demand.

John pulled back with a groan, his slightly swollen lips parted and his lids low as they breathed heavily. With one quick movement, John grasped his own sweater and undershirt and pulled them both over his head fluidly. His torso, now bare, was aglow with the yellow light from their lamps. His chest rose and fell with each breath, skin tight over the movement. Sherlock wasn’t given more than a mere second to admire him before John was back on him, nearly ripping buttons open in his haste. Sherlock started to complain before he realized that he was wearing John’s shirt. If John wanted to ruin his own shirt, far be it from Sherlock to stop him.

Within moments the shirt was open, leaving his own chest bare. The new skin on skin contact nearly made him lose his equilibrium. How interesting that the mere touch of someone elses skin could cause such a reaction! As they continued to kiss, John’s hand grew bolder, pulling at Sherlock’s hips to bring him away from the desk. Those hands, so solid and unweilding, reached around him and gripped one side of his arse in each. Sherlock couldn’t help but gasp, stealing the breath from John’s mouth. John grinned against his lips and then jerked, bringing their groins flush together. Oh, the feeling of him _there!_

How could he have forgone this experience for so long? He would have made an effort to experience intimacy much sooner, had he known. But was it always this way, was it always this… arousing? Or was he simply so intoxicated on someone elses touch because that person was John? Oh God, he didn’t care. At this precise moment in time it didn’t matter, because God, he _was_ aroused and it _was_ John. _His John._

The feral thought caught him off guard. His John? Was he his John? He barely gave it thought before the answer was clear to him. Of course, _of course_ , his John. It seemed natural, expected. He had always been his John, from the moment he limped into that lab months ago, with his cane and his military induced posture, with his brooding eyes.

A sharp nip at his lower lip and a hard thrust into his front snapped him back to the present along with growling words being pressed to his mouth.  
“Focus, Sherlock.” John ordered, effectively halting his line of thought. Sherlock kissed him with increased vigor, desperate to feel more of John’s erection pressed against his own. Suddenly the fabric of their trousers was too thick, too constricting. He needed John’s bare skin on his own, he needed to _feel_ that hard length thrusting against him.

“I demand that you accompany me to the bedroom. Now.” Sherlock gasped as John rolled a particularly good bit of friction between them.  
“Oh God, yes.” He breathed, tugging Sherlock away from the desk and towards the hall. They stumbled as they stepped, neither willing to let go of the other or relinquish their claim on each others lips. They fought as they kissed, each needing to find purchase and dominance, unwilling to submit. Though John was shorter, his body still retained most of the muscular physique that he had acquired in his days with the military. Sherlock was by no means a delicate man, but he could not match John when it came to muscle mass and strength of arms. He was even unable to use his height to his advantage, as John had been dealing with more vertically blessed individuals all of his life and knew his way around such a hinderance. He could gain no advantage.

John pushed him eagerly into a bookshelf as they were too preoccupied with each others touch and each others mouths to judge the distance properly. Sherlock's’ shoulders were pressed into the shelves with enough force to make him wince, had he had enough wits about him to feel it. John had chosen that exact moment to reach down into his trousers and wrap those strong fingers around his cock, and suddenly the shelves digging into his shoulder blades were the last thing on his mind.

Oh, that _hand_ on his cock! Those sure and steady fingers began to caress him, pumping up and down the length of him so slowly, giving him a sensation that nearly buckled his knees.  
“Ah, John!” He managed to gasp, though he knew not how as he had no breath to spare. John groaned, his hot mouth finding a hold on his neck, teeth nipping at sensitive skin. His other hand made swift work of Sherlock’s clasp and zipper, effectively freeing him and giving more room for John to work him. Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders, using his sturdy body to hold himself upright.

Sherlock found himself panting, actually panting as John stroked him almost lovingly, with just the right amount of rough jerking as he came to the head. His mouth bit and sucked at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder while his other hand gripped the opposite side of his jaw. Sherlock’s heart was pounding, he could nearly hear it beating in his own ears. His body felt hot and raw and needy, his hands grasped desperately at John as he tried to hold on while the pleasure of John’s touch racked through him. Just when he thought he could stand it it no more, John’s hand came away from him and he dropped to his knees. Sherlock’s eyes shot open as he heard the thump of his knees hitting the floor and had just opened his mouth to speak, though he had no idea what he had been about to say, as John’s hot, wet mouth closed over him.

White exploded around the edge of his vision as he stared blindly while John sucked him. That tongue, as he had only fantasized moments before, wrapped around the head of his cock and sucked _hard_ , before he loosened his hold and tightened his lips, sliding them along his length. Oh but _God_ , the feel of that mouth sucking him! His nerves were on _fire_. He was so hard and ready that John’s mouth bordered that thin line between pain and pleasure, and all he could think of was having him suck _harder._

Losing clarity and all reason, Sherlock thrust his hips forward, needing to be deeper inside that mouth. John gripped his hips tightly, his thumbs digging into Sherlock’s hipbones as he held him still. But Sherlock didn’t want to be still, he want to _move_. He wanted to push John into the floor and rightly fuck his bloody brains out.

“John, John you must stop. If you don’t I’ll… I’ll…” Sherlock groaned as John took one more pull, slowly dragging his lips and tongue along him before releasing him with a wet _pop._ Sherlock looked down at him, breathing as though he’d been running for hours, and nearly melted at the sight of John’s shiny, plump lips. He grabbed him by the upper arms and pulled him up roughly, kissing him blindly.

He pushed away from the wall and forcefully dragged John down the hall and to the bedroom, not even bothering to close the door as he shoved John against the wall just inside. His fingers made quick work of John’s pants, shoving them down his legs roughly in his haste. He let John finish, peeling them off and stepping out of them while Sherlock removed his own. When they were completely nude, still heaving for air, Sherlock took a step back to inspect his flatmate.

Had there ever been anything shaped so magnificently, so perfectly, as John Watson? His face was dark from exposure from the sun, as were his hands, but that was where the darkened color ceased. From the neck down and wrist up, his skin was pale, with the slightest dusting of freckles. His color would never reach the almost alabaster of Sherlocks, but he was indeed pale and perfect. His body was thick, though he had lost some of his definition from so long away from the daily activity the military had required of him. His short hair was tousled, his mouth open and his cheeks flushed.

But what really drew Sherlock's attention was the sight of his twitching erection. He had never found himself fantasizing about naked men, nor naked women if he was being fair, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from John’s perfect cock. He was shorter than Sherlock, though barely, and thicker. He stood straight and unashamed, his tip glistening with smeared semen. Sherlock nearly moaned when John’s hand suddenly gripped himself, squeezing more fluid from the tip. His eyes fluttered and glazed over as he watched Sherlock’s reaction. He _knew._

Oh how Sherlock wanted that cock. He wanted it in his hands, in his mouth. He almost took the time to wonder what had come over him, but he couldn’t find the thought to spare as he fixated on that perfect member and the way John’s hand wrapped around it. His own twitched at the thought, he licked his dry lips. John’s eyes suddenly narrowed on his face and he released himself, striding forward quickly to shove Sherlock down onto the bed.

Then John was on top of him, kissing him again as he knocked Sherlock's legs aside and situated himself between them. Thick biceps and John’s face filled his vision as he descended on him again, kissing him roughly. Sherlock could sense the display of dominance, his ire rose as he pushed back, while contradictorily wrapping one leg around John’s arse to pull them together.  
“Sh-Sherlock!” John gasped as their groins pressed and rubbed together. Sherlock felt a surge of approval as John threw his head back and rutted against him, mouth open in a silent groan.

He knew that they could both finish this way, that there would be no need to take the act any further to receive gratification. They hadn’t had the discussion about how this would work, and with the way John was handling him the answer seemed clear. Sherlock smiled grimly, knowing that he would not allow John to dominate him so thoroughly. At least, not their first time.

He allowed his body to work John’s for a little longer, resistant to the idea of relinquishing the feeling of John thrusting over him. With one hand, he gripped John’s jaw, loving the way the muscle hardened under his touch as he forced his face down and close enough to kiss. John worked his hips as they kissed, their tongues entwining almost expertly now.

When one particular thrust brought John’s cock down farther, far enough to brush against Sherlock’s entrance, he decided it was time to take control. He brought his hands to John’s sides and tightened his grip, smiling at the way John’s eyes widened as he realized what Sherlock was about to attempt. He gave him no more warning than the smile, and proceeded to promptly shove John off and to the side, using the momentum to pull himself up and over him. He forced his hips between John’s legs, solidly and efficiently switching their positions.

He rolled his long body against John, giving him no quarter as he assaulted his mouth once again. Propped up by his hands, he worked his hips quickly, sliding their cocks together to acquire that blinding friction that they both so desperately needed. John’s hands shot down to his lower back, fingers digging in as he pulled Sherlock even closer, leaving no spaces between them.

The activity had caused a sheen of perspiration on each of their bodies. John’s skin glistened in the dim light as Sherlock worked him, his breath coming quicker. He began to prepare for the next step in his mind, deliberating on the best course of action to proceed, when John brought three fingers from his dominant hand and pressed them to Sherlock's lips.  
“Suck.” John ordered, his voice rough with arousal.

Sherlock hesitated, studying his face in wonder before he obliged. John’s fingers were rough with caloses and warm in his mouth, but he bit and sucked and nipped them with pleasure that surprised him. He found that he loved the feeling of those digits in his mouth, loved how them slid over his sensitive tongue. He was far from done and almost devastated when John suddenly removed them, leaving a trail of saliva from his lower lip.

Those hot, wet fingers trailed down his neck and chest, in between their bodies and down between their hips. John let his head fall back as his breath hitched. Intrigued, Sherlock pulled back just far enough to observe his behavior. He placed his hands on John’s knees, kneeling back to watch with boiling blood as John’s fingers worked at his own hole, moving around and stretching. He glanced back up to John’s face to see him flushed, eyes closed as he breathed even more heavily than before.

Sherlock could tell by the tightening of his brow and the clenching of his jaw that the action caused him discomfort. He almost moved to stop him, to still that hand, but found himself clutching his own erection instead. He gasped, nearly done in by the sight of John fingering himself and his own hand on his cock. The sound roused John’s attentioned and those wide pupils fixed on him suddenly. His face relaxed, Sherlock could see how the ring of muscles ceased to clench so violently.

Eager to ease his difficulty, Sherlock continued to pump himself slowly, relishing in the way John’s eyes followed the movement of his hand greedily. Soon all three of his fingers were moving easily. He watched as John brought his other hand to his mouth momentarily, leaving a swell of saliva on his palm. He reached for Sherlock’s cock, shoving his hand out of the way to coat him with the substitute lubricant.

When he was thoroughly readied, John brought back hands back to his sides and clenched the sheets, letting his head fall back.  
“In me, now.” He whispered, and Sherlock could only obey. He adjusted his position and pressed the head of his erection against John’s entrance, watching as his friend let out a nervous breath. He took a breath himself, bracing for whatever result was brought by the action, and _pushed._

 _Tight_ , so tight, and _hot_. He had only gained an inch of distance before he had to pause as John clenched around him. He paused for John’s sake, and his own. John’s brows were knitted together and his teeth clenched as he adjusted. He had to wait, for fear of risking hurt to him. Also for fear of not being able to control his own release. So close, he was _so close_ and John was _so tight._

He massaged John’s thighs as he waited it out, letting him relax. After a few moments, he began to loosen and breath more deeply, his shoulders were less tight and the muscles in his stomach smoothed. Sherlock studied his reaction carefully as he pushed forward slowly, burying himself alway the way to the hilt. John cried out, a strangled noise of half pleasure, half pain. Sherlock shuddered at the sound, feeling John clench around him over and over. He remained motionless, allowing John more time to adjust.

When John let out a loud breath and slumped back limply, Sherlock began to move. He kept his pace slow, watching John intently as he thrust into him languidly. His muscles rippled under his skin, pectorals and biceps flexing in a way that caused a tightening low in Sherlock’s stomach. His head was laid back, his back arched, mouth open as he panted through Sherlock’s movements. He had never been more bewitching than in that moment, lost in the sensation of Sherlock fucking him.

He would never get enough of this.

Introduced to such an act, Sherlock knew that he would be loathe and quite possibly unable to stop desiring the feeling of John’s hands clutching desperately, trying to find purchase, of John’s tight heat around him, of John breathing out his name. This debauchery was addictive, devastatingly addictive, and the question arose of; _how would they ever stop?_

He had no answer as he pounded into John relentlessly, gaining speed and thrusting harder and harder, until the wet sound of his upper thighs slapping against John’s buttocks filled the room, along with their heavy breathing. John moaned, his voice like liquid sex as it graced Sherlock’s ears, wrapping around him like the wet heat of his arse. He gripped John’s legs tighter as he felt the build of his release encroaching.

Glancing down at John’s lonely cock as it rested hard and rigid and definitely aching against his stomach, Sherlock flicked his gaze up at John’s face as he reached for it, grasping it tightly in his fist. John’s eyes shot open, his head jerking up to observe those long fingers wrapped around him. He let out another moan, a shaky sound, screaming of loss of control. Pleased, Sherlock began to pump him quickly in time with his own thrusts. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer and he would be damned if John didn’t reach the height of his pleasure as well.

John’s hip began to move as he pushed against Sherlock’s hips and his hand. His tight hole wrapped around Sherlock, caressing him and begging to be fucked harder. Sherlock quickened the pace of his hips and fist, jerking John’s cock good and hard until John stilled and cried out loudly, an abandoned sound that resonating like the sweetest music. He spilled his semen all over his own abdomen and Sherlock’s fingers. The sight of him jerking and twitching, muscles tightening, sent Sherlock over the edge. His orgasm punched him in the gut, leaving him groaning and doubled over John, his forehead pressed against his collarbone. Their chests heaved as they stilled, too short of breath to speak.

John’s legs fell limply, feet on the bed with his knees bent around Sherlock’s hips. A hand came up and tangled in Sherlock’s curls, tugging his head back with no amount of tenderness so that John could see his face. Their eyes met, both heavily lidded with exhaustion, and John suddenly smiled. His entire face changed dramatically, lines and creases appearing with his expression. The unexpected glee in his eyes was infectious.

Sherlock found himself smiling as well, endorphins overpowering his system in the aftermath of their mutual pleasure. He leaned forward, pressing their lips together chastly before collapsing back onto John’s chest. The sweat on his face and neck mixed with that on John’s chest, leaving their skin sticky and hot. Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to care.

He eventually stretched his legs out, letting his weight rest on John’s lower body while still sheathed inside of him. They lay quietly, waiting for their breathing to return to normal and their hearts to slow their rhythms. John’s hand remained in Sherlock’s hair, fingers massaging his scalp and tugging occasionally. Sherlock had never been so content in his life.

Though it didn’t take long for his mind to resume it’s normal occupancy. He had just had sex with John. How would this change them? He felt much more altered than he originally thought he would when he proposed the idea. He was unable to grasp the level of detachment that he had cocooned himself in before. Strange emotions were coursing through his mind, undilated and harsh on his usually cool consciousness, ripping through him like a lashing.

Now that he had had John, he couldn’t imagine another having him. Did that mean that he wanted exclusivity? Would John? Would they be able to function as efficiently as before during cases, or would this desire continue to be a distraction? Would John be satisfied and content with the direction their relationship had taken?

He lay still on top of his friend turned lover, his body masking John’s lower extremities as they basked in the silent afterglow while simultaneously running through all of his concerns in his mind. If John felt his discontent, he did not acknowledge it. He just lay there in silence, fingers tugging at Sherlock’s hair.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry I'm so late. I have no excuses. Here is the last chapter.

Chapter Ten

  
  


“We should probably clean up.” John mumbled softly. He had pressed his mouth against the top of Sherlock’s head and the dark hairs tickled his nose as he breathed in the smell of chemicals and shampoo and sweat. Sherlock didn’t voice a coherent reply, choosing to let out a low hum from deep in his throat as he wrapped his arms around John more tightly.

 

The action surprised John, as his flatmate had never been one to enjoy or initiate any kind of physical comfort. His reluctance to move away made John smile, secretly pleased that he seemed to enjoy their embrace.

 

He felt strangely buoyant, high on the knowledge of what they had done. It was irrational, how only a few days ago he was content in the platonic relationship between Sherlock and himself, but now that they had taken it farther he couldn’t imagine it evolving any other way. Had he always held such an unconscious attraction to his friend? Had he been deluding himself, all this time as he continued to tell everyone, and himself, that there was nothing between them?

 

He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of Sherlock as they lay quietly. It occurred to him then as Sherlock’s hands dug into his arm and side, to wonder how their act had affected his friend. It had been John’s first time with another man, but it had been Sherlock’s first time with anyone. It was a momentous occasion for him, and John wanted to ask how he was affected but the unsure words froze in his throat. He was suddenly afraid to break to the spell, to puncture the bubble of comfortable intimacy that had formed around them.

 

Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation and lifted his head to study John’s face, eyebrows raising up to his hairline in a silent question. John realized he was expected to speak.

“Ah, I was just, um. Wondering how you were feeling?” He finished lamely, mentally bashing his head against a figurative wall.

“Are inquiring after my mental state or physical well being?” Sherlock asked, a smirk on his lips.

“Both, I suppose.” John answered, oddly comforted by his coyness.

“Physically, I am perfectly sound. Rather well stated, to be honest. I was unaware that intimacy and release stimulated by another person could be so gratifying. I’ll want to repeat our little tryst on a regular basis and see if the current level of allure holds. As far as my… emotional state is concerned… I am experiencing a certain… discontent.” He finished, his eyes softening as his gaze unfocused. John frowned, tensing up against the rebuff he was about to receive.

 

He couldn’t claim to be ignorant about Sherlock’s _condition._ He knew from the beginning that it was difficult for the self proclaimed sociopath, if not impossible, for him to form an emotional attachment to anyone. From the start this had merely been an arrangement to benefit him, to stop John from leaving so that Sherlock could stay focused. It was stupid for him to have expected anything more.

 

But wait, had he wanted more? Was this another, more dangerous, unconscious desire that he was only just realizing the existence of now? What exactly _had_ he expected to come of this? It was obvious that there was sexual attraction between them, but what about -he felt his skin go cold at the thought- love?

 

Was Sherlock even capable of love? Looking at him now, with those sharp eyes watching his face with a fervor that suggested he could hear every thought, John wasn’t sure. Maybe, perhaps, with time? There was no way to know for sure. Did John want to spend so much time on a person who might never reciprocate his feelings?

 

“John? Your skin just lost three shades of color and your heart is increasing it’s rhythm. What are you thinking?” Sherlock asked, lifting himself up so that he was resting on his elbows, with one on each side of John’s stomach. His thin, perfect face was so devastatingly beautiful, whis his sex mussed hair and his still pink lips. It made John’s heart ache just to look at him.

“I was just wondering what this meant for us.” He offered, deciding that honestly would be best. Better to get it out in the open so that they could discuss it now, rather than let it fester.

 

“How coincidental, as I was just thinking the same thing.” Sherlock murmured, his eyes going far away again. John swallowed dryly before he spoke, summoning his courage.

“Look Sherlock, I understand that you suggested this with complete rationality. I know you only needed for my relationships to stop distracting you, I understand that. I even accepted it. But I think it’s going to be hard for me to… continue to do this with you without… developing some _feelings_ about it.” He finished, feeling the warmth rush back into his face.

“Feelings?” Sherlock questioned, frowning.

“Yes Sherlock. Feelings.” John replied, exasperated now. “Normal people can’t just have sex with someone without growing… emotionally attached to that person. As much as I enjoyed what we just did, because really, it was bloody fantastic, I can’t keep it up forever. I’m going to need to find someone who is willing to have a real relationship with me. Which requires more than a good shag.” He said, wincing at the strange ache in his chest.

 

“John, I…” Sherlock began, paused, shook his head slightly as though ridding himself of an unpleasant thought, then began again. “It is no secret that I am out of my depth when it comes to understand the finer workings of sentiment. I have intentionally made this obvious, so as to ward off potential admirers, as I have no time for such things. I consider myself married to my work, as I told you the second day we met.” John looked away from Sherlock’s face as he spoke that last sentence, letting his gaze linger towards the ceiling as he struggled with his sudden hopelessness. Sherlock paused as he looked away and reached out, grasping John’s chin in his hand and tugging his face back down, confusion and… could that be concern in his expression? “But I would be lying if I told you that this last week hasn’t affected me.”

 

John sucked in a breath, letting the fragile hope swell in his chest as he waited for Sherlock to continue.

 

“I find myself thinking about you John, nearly every second of the day and night. I have always prided myself on my ability to function alone, without the weight of another consciousness to impede my life. But you, John, are the exception. Even when my mind is preoccupied with other things, of cases and bodies and the cultures in the fridge, I am thinking of you. There is an entire wing in my mind palace, dedicated to you. The thought of you leaving this flat without me is distasteful and I can’t accept you being with anyone else. I could not imagine going back to the life I knew before you walked into that lab at Barts. I can quite honestly admit that if I were ever to love someone, it would be you, John Watson. And I ask that you give me time, time to adjust to the strength of these strange… emotions. I will not change immediately, but I promise you that if you give me time and patience, that I will try.” By the time he finished, John’s heart was pounding out of control. He couldn’t find the words, they had gotten lost somewhere on the way from his brain to his mouth.

 

Was he being serious? Of course he was, Sherlock wouldn’t joke about something of this nature. John stared at him, trying to form a decent response. Sherlock still lay there, propped up on one elbow as held John’s face firmly in place. Was it his imagination, or had his heart swelled to twice it’s normal size? He couldn’t believe his own ears, surely he had fallen asleep and he was dreaming. For all he could have hoped for, realistically, this could not have been a better result. Sherlock had offered the one thing that would have made John happy; time and the chance for something more.

 

Millions of stupidly emotional responses ran through his mind, and quite a few snarky ones, but the only thing he could force out of his mouth was;

“You’re a bloody idiot, do you know that?” He asked, feeling his mouth tilt up at the corners.

“Does that mean you’ll consider my offer?” Sherlock inquired, tilting his head to the side. John let out a bark of delirious laughter.

“Yes, you moron.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


The kettle had just started whistling when John caught the movement in his peripheral vision. Sherlock strode into the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, with his haughty ‘I own the world’ expression. He had dressed in his usual black trousers and that dark blue silk shirt that John thought made his skin look radiant. His hair was still damp and artfully tousled, his shoes were silent on the hardwood floor.

“Sit, allow me.” He ordered, taking the kettle from John’s hand. John raised an eyebrow but smartly did not argue. Sherlock never made tea.

“I’ll stand thank you. Bum is still sore.” He added sheepishly, feeling his face turn pink.

“Is it? After tea I can massage some of your sore areas, if you like.” Sherlock offered, his voice low and suggestive. John stared at him, amazed. Who knew Sherlock Holmes could be so… seductive.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I can repeat the experience so soon, no matter how pleasing it was. I should take it easy, at least for the remainder of the day.” He said, watching Sherlock’s profile closely as he made their tea.

“I was not being indelicate John. I merely wanted to help ease your discomfort. It is amazing, the tensions that can be relieved through a deep tissue massage in your upper thighs or lower back. But if you say so, doctor Watson. Far be it from me to argue.”  He smirked, handing John his cup. John swallowed, imagining those long fingered hands rubbing into his sore muscles.

“Well maybe I could benefit from-” But his words were cut off as Sherlocks mobile began to ring from his pocket. He watched as he pulled it out and glanced sharply at the screen.

“A raincheck, John…” He murmured before he brought the phone to ear and walked out of the kitchen.

 

John sipped at his still too hot tea while John listened to whoever was speaking to him. He smiled as he realized that Sherlock knew how he liked his tea. Not that it should have been surprising after all, it was Sherlock he was talking about.

“John!” Sherlock called from the sitting room. Teacup in hand, John padded into the next room, wincing at the soreness in his arse.

“Go shower and dress, quickly!” Sherlock ordered, slipping his phone back into his trouser pocket.

“Where are we going?” John inquired.

“Scotland yard. They caught him.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


John was pleasantly surprised to find that their public relationship didn’t seem to be affected much. Sherlock treated him the same around other people, minus the occasional lingering gaze. When they arrived at the police station Lestrade met them outside the interrogation rooms, an expression of cautious triumph lingering over his features.

“Picked up him up about an hour ago after he attempted to attack a guy taking out his trash in an alley over on West. We were able to stop him before he got any drugs into the guy. He had a bag with him, this was in it, along with a few other tools.” John watched as the Detective Inspector handed over a clear evidence bag, holding a thin strip of pale purple silk. The same color as John’s shirt, the one Sherlock had worn to the coffee shop only hours ago.

 

“I will speak to him. Can you give me one hundred and twenty seconds?” Sherlock asked looking up from the bag in his hand. John couldn’t help but bask in his commanding presence, smothering the smile that threatened his lips.

“Yeah. Be quick. I’d like to wrap this up.” He said, nodding to the door that held their prisoner. Sherlock kept the bag in his fist as he swept through the door silently, letting it click shut behind him.

 

John followed Lestrade around the corner and to the window so they could observe what was happening in the room. Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the table, not bothering to sit and using his height to his advantage. The young man, Trevor, only stared at him openly, a barrage of emotions running across his face. Attraction, admiration, reverence, anger, fear. He didn’t look away until Sherlock dropped the bag on the table between them.

 

He winced as he caught sight of the evidence.

“Why did you kill those people Trevor?” Sherlock asked, his voice deceptively quiet. Trevor looked back up at him, pain and need in his eyes.

“I did it for you… to give you something… I thought you might find me…” Trevor whispered. John was surprised by the quality of his voice, even through the small speaker. It was an attractive voice, light, the male alto to Sherlock’s baritone.

“I don’t need people to kill for me. If i wanted to play with dead bodies, I daresay I could wrap them up much more efficiently and without all the drama.” He said, his voice cold. Trevor flinched. “In the end you were just like the rest of them.”

 

The younger man looked up, his handsome face imploring.

“What do you mean?” He pleaded, nearly close to tears. John found himself feeling sorry for him. Sherlock obviously did not have the same reservations.

“Boring.” He answered, leaving the bag on the table and table and turning to the door. He paused with his hand on the door handle, his back to Trevor but his face easily visible through window. There was a thought there, flickering across his expression. John could have stared for a million years, and never have been able to decipher that look.

“It wasn’t even my shirt.” He whispered. John frowned and looked to Trevor, who looked just as confused as he felt.

“What do you…” And as though mirroring him, realization dawned on him just as John figured it out. Not Sherlock’s shirt. John’s shirt. John, the plain, unassuming man that Sherlock had his arm around in the coffee shop. Trevor’s face twisted into a bitter expression of pain just before Sherlock removed himself from the room, leaving the young man alone.

 

“What was that about?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock stepped out.

“Nothing. Our work is done here. We’ll be in touch.” He responded, nodded to the Detective before walking swiftly away.

“Greg.” John nodded, more politely than his friend, and then strode after him. John caught up to him as he reached the steps down to the street. He studied Sherlocks face as he hailed a cab, going over the interview in his mind. And then he turned to look down at John.

 

The stark difference between the coldness in his eyes as he looked down at Trevor and the shining warmth in them now was incredible. Sherlock may consider himself to be without sentiment, and John may have even believed him for a while, but there was proof there, in that expression, that they had both been wrong. Sherlock did feel, even if he didn’t realize it. John smiled, maybe there was hope for them after all.

“What are you thinking?” Sherlock suddenly asked, eyes narrowing on John’s face. John grinned wider, shaking his head.

“You’re brilliant. You know that?” Sherlock smirked at his words, looking back to the street so John could study his perfect profile.

“So I’ve been told.”

 

Yes, maybe there was hope after all.

  
  


_The end._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

  
  


 

  
  
  



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